LIFE  IN 


p   m    \^r    ~W    •      "^ 

i  JTI.JL-/ 

OPEN 


SPORT  WITH 

ROD,  GU  M, 

HORSE  AND 

HOUND 


SOUTH  ERK 
CALIFORNIA 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
SANTA  BARBARA 

COLLEGE  OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MR. AND  MRS.R.W.VAUGHAN 


Sport    with    Rod,    Gun 
Horse,   and   Hound 

In 

Southern  California 


By 

Charles   Frederick   Holder 

Author  of  "  Life  of  Charles  Darwin,"  "  The  Big  Game  Fishes" 
"  The  Adventures  of  Torqua,"  etc. 


Illustrated 


G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons 

New   York  and   London 

TEbe  TRntcfeerbocfeer  press 

1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1906 

BV 
CHARLES  FREDERICK  HOLDER 


Tlbe  ttnlcfeerbocfeer  pre««,  Hew 


Preface 

IN  presenting  these  impressions  of  outdoor  life  and 
sport  in  Southern  California  during  twenty  or 
more  years  along  shore  and  the  Sierra  Madre,  I 
should  perhaps  say  that  the  point  of  view  has  been  one 
of  personal  experience  alone,  and  the  hunting  days 
described  are  as  I  found  and  tried  to  make  them. 

My  conception  of  sport  does  not  include  a  desper- 
ate killing,  a  plethoric  bag  or  creel ;  the  game  is  merely 
an  incident  in  the  day,  and  in  the  splendid  canons  of 
the  Sierra  Madre,  I  confess,  has  often  been  forgotten. 
A  hunting  day,  at  least  to  my  mind,  should  include 
a  drawing  for  all  the  senses,  not  game  alone,  but  the 
enjoyment  of  the  flora,  the  variety  in  mountain  view, 
the  vistas  of  different  kinds,  the  charming  changes  of 
colour  and  tone  that  sweep  over  the  range  as  the  hours 
pass,  and  the  thousand  and  one  diversions  which  nature 
always  affords. 

Southern  California  lends  itself  particularly  to  such 
a  definition  of  sport ;  its  hunting  grounds  are  staged 
with  unwonted  effects — lofty  mountains,  pallid  deserts, 
seas  of  turquoise  abounding  not  only  in  countless  game 
fishes,  but  in  a  marvellous  variety  of  living  forms  which 
appeal  to  the  sportsman  and  fill  out  his  days  with  aes- 
thetic as  well  as  practical  experiences. 

iii 


IV 


Preface 


There  is  hardly  wild  game,  big  or  small,  in  America 
that  is  not  menaced  by  the  spectre  of  extinction,  and 
were  it  not  for  game  laws,  clubs  of  gentlemen,  sportsmen 
of  various  kinds,  wild  life  would  in  a  short  time  disap- 
pear from  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  should  be  the  duty 
of  every  sportsman  to  conserve  the  gifts  of  nature. 
Sport  with  the  gun,  rod,  spear,  and  hound  is  legitimate 
and  manly,  but  there  is  an  unwritten  law  among  gentle- 
men that  no  sportsman  will  kill  more  than  the  camp  de- 
mands, or  rational  sport  justifies.  The  rod  catch  of 
tarpons  last  season  at  Tarpon,  Texas,  was  nearly  eight 
hundred  fish,  yet  every  one  not  needed  as  a  trophy  was 
released.  I  can  conceive  no  greater  example  of  self- 
control  than  that  illustrated  by  the  angler  who  stops 
fishing  when  but  two  tunas  have  been  caught,  though  the 
waters  are  covered  with  schools  eager  for  the  lure  ;  yet 
I  have  witnessed  this  marvellous  thing. 

Southern  California  is  an  open  book  the  year  around. 
Every  day,  winter  or  summer,  has  its  invitation  to  the 
lover  of  sport  or  nature  ;  not  only  in  the  south  but 
throughout  the  length  of  the  land.  The  present  volume 
is  confined  to  Southern  California,  as  to  cover  the  en- 
tire State  adequately  would  require  much  more 
space.  Northern  California  possesses  even  greater 
natural  wonders  than  the  south  and  more  big  game, 
at  least  among  land  animals.  The  section  de- 
scribed includes  the  region  south  of  Point  Concep- 
tion, the  counties  of  Santa  Barbara,  San  Buenaven- 
tura, Los  Angeles,  San  Bernardino,  Riverside,  Orange, 


Preface  v 

and  San  Diego,  or,  in  brief,  the  lower  part  of  the 
State. 

The  conditions  are  so  different  from  those  in 
Eastern  America,  the  winter  being  the  season  of 
flowers,  the  entire  year  an  open  one,  inviting  sports  and 
varied  pastimes,  that  I  have  tried  to  convey  to  the  reader 
some  idea  of  "life  in  the  open"  in  the  various  seasons, 
what  to  expect  winter,  or  summer,  in  this  land  of  the 
palm  and  orange,  and  to  a  certain  extent  to  answer 
some  of  the  questions  relating  to  the  country  which  I 
have  often  been  asked.  Thus,  to  the  world  at  large, 
Southern  California  is  merely  a  winter  resort.  This  is 
a  popular  misconception.  It  is,  to  my  mind  at  least, 
a  far  better  summer  resort,  and  the  dwellers  along  its 
shores  and  among  the  channel  islands  know  an  almost 
perfect  summer  climate,  and  never  experience  the  intense 
often  deadly,  heat  of  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  The  truth 
about  Southern  California  is  that  it  is  an  all-the-year- 
round  land,  where  it  can  honestly  be  said  the  disagreeable 
features  of  life  and  climate  are  reduced  to  the  minimum. 

Southern  California  is  so  cosmopolitan  that  it  belongs 
to  all  America,  and  in  this  oasis  between  the  desert  and 
the  deep  sea  the  country  has  a  possession  that  will 
prove  in  years  to  come  one  of  its  most  valuable  assets. 
Yesterday  it  was  a  great  ranch  ;  to-day  it  is  a  principal- 
ity, and  has  taken  its  place  among  the  great  and  active 
centres  of  life,  health,  and  commerce  of  the  world. 

C.  F.  H. 

PASADENA,  CALIFORNIA. 


Contents 


CHAPTER  I. 
ACROSS  COUNTRY  WITH  GREYHOUNDS  ....  i 

CHAPTER  II. 
HUNTING  THE  LYNX 17 

CHAPTER  III. 
DEER-HUNTING  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  SIERRAS  ...  37 

CHAPTER  IV. 
WATER  FOWL 49 

CHAPTER  V. 
FOX-HUNTING  IN  SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA     ....         63 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  RAINBOW  IN  THE  SIERRA  MADRE 79 

CHAPTER  VII. 
FOLLOWING  THE  LOWLAND  WOLF         .....         101 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
SHORE  AND  OTHER  BIRDS 119 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  BIGHORN 127 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  HOME  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  LION  .....        135 

vii 


.»  Contents 

PACK 

CHAPTER  XL 

i53 
THE  VALLEY  QUAIL    . 

CHAPTER  XII. 

165 
THE  HEART  OF  THE  DESERT 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

179 
EL  CAMINO  REAL 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

209 
LIFE  IN  THE  SIERRA  MADRE 

CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  WILD  GOAT  ON  ORIZABA    . 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

2T.Z 

THE  RISE  OF  DON  ANTONIO 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

2CQ 

THE  ROYAL  CATCH 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
SANTA  CATALINA  ISLAND •        •        *73 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  SEA  LION'S  DEN    .  •        •  2  7 

CHAPTER  XX. 
TROLLING  IN  DEEP  WATER    .  .... 

CHAPTER  XXL 
THE  CALIFORNIA  WEAKFISH 3°7 


Contents 

CHAPTER  XXII. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  TRIBE  OF  SERIOLA 


IX 

PAGB 


A  WINDOW  OF  THE  SEA f  ^j- 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CRUISING  AMONG  THE  CHANNEL  ISLANDS    .         .        .  327 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  STILL  ANGLER ~ 


349 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  CLIMATE 359 

APPENDIX 381 

GAME  LAWS 33* 

INDEX ,07 


Illustrations 


CHARLES  F.  HOLDER  AND  THE  VALLEY  HUNT  HOUNDS. 

Frontispiece 
WINTER  BLOSSOM  OF  THE  EUCALYPTUS          ...  i 

RUINS  OF  THE  CHAPEL  MISSION  OF  SAN  JUAN  CAPISTRANO, 

ON  EL  CAMINO  REAL 4 

A  SUDDEN  TURN,  OBSERVED  BY  THE  AUTHOR         ...  8 

CHARLES  WINSTON'S  SUNNY  SLOPE  HOUNDS          ...         12 

Photo  by  Crandall 

WALK  AT  THE  MISSION  OF  SANTA  BARBARA  ON  EL  CAMINO 

REAL I4 

THE  TREED  LYNX xy 

LYNX  HUNTING,  CANADA  SANTIAGO,  NEAR  ORANGE    .        .         22 
TREED  LYNX.     SANTIAGO  CLUB,  NEAR  FULLERTON        .         .         24 

THE   BELLS   OF    MISSION   SAN  GABRIEL  ARCANGEL,    NEAR 

PASADENA 28 

VALLEY  HUNT  Fox  HOUNDS — PASADENA      ....        30 

Photo  by  Crandall 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  LYNX  HUNTERS,  NEAR  EL  TORO    .         .         34 

Photo  by  Graham 

CALIFORNIA  HOLLY,  ADENOSTOMA 37 

HE  VISITS  RANCH  GARDENS  EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING       .        .        42 


xii  Illustrations 

PAG* 

DEER  m  THE  OPEN         ...  46 

BRINGING  IN  THE  DUCKS  AT  BALSA  CHICA    .                         .  49 

MISSION  OF  SAN  JUAN  CAPISTRANO  ON  THE  KING'S  HIGHWAY  54 

A  GOOD  DAY  FOR  CANVAS-BACKS  AT  BALSA  CHICA       .  58 

AN  HOUR'S  GOOSE  SHOOTING          .....  60 

THE  TREED  Fox 63 

WINTER  LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  NEAR  PASADENA          ...  70 

Photo  by  Graham 

FOX-HUNTING  COUNTRY  NEAR   ORANGE,   SANTIAGO   MTS.  74 

Photo  by  Graham 

RAINBOW  TROUT — BEAR  VALLEY  LAKE         ....  79 

THE  STAIRS  OF  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  GABRIEL  ARCANGEL, 

NEAR  PASADENA  ON  THE  KING'S  HIGHWAY     ...  84 

Photo  by  H.  A.  Parker 

DOCTOR  PAGE  CASTING  IN  THE  UPPER  BIG  POOL,  DEEP 

CREEK,  SAN  BERNARDINO  RANGE 88 

WINTER  IN  THE  SIERRA  MADRE  NEAR  SAN  DIEGO          .        .  92 

THE  NORTH  FORK  OF  THE  SAN  JACINTO  RIVER,  SAN  JACINTO 

MOUNTAINS     .        .        .        ...        .        .        .  98 

THE  SANTIAGO  HUNT 101 

IN  AT  THE  DEATH,  SANTIAGO  HUNT  NEAR  ORANGE      .        .  108 

SAN  Luis  OBISPO  DE  TOLOSA  ON  EL  CAMINO  REAL  (KING'S 

HIGHWAY) iI2 

Photo  by  Putnam  &  Valentine 

SANTIAGO  HUNT  BREAKFAST  NEAR  SANTA  ANA  .        .         .116 

THE  WAVES  AT  CORONADO 119 

GULLS  AT  AVALON  BAY                 .  122 


Illustrations  xiii 

PAGE 

CASTLE  ROCK,  SANTA  BARBARA  124 

MOUNT  SAN  ANTONIO  FROM  REDLANDS    •      .         .        .         .127 
MOUNT  SAN  JACINTO 135 

GARDEN  OF  THE  MISSION  OF  SANTA  BARBARA  IN  EL  CAMINO 

REAL      ..........       140 

Photo  by  H.  A.  Parker 

HAUNTS  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  LION,  AND  GRIZZLY  PEAK          .       144 
PASADENA  IN  WINTER.     FLOWERS  AND  SNOW      .         .         .       153 

HAUNTS  OF  THE  VALLEY  QUAIL  NEAR  PASADENA  COUNTRY 

CLUB 158 

Photo     by  Graham 

DECANSOBAY — A  WHITE  SEA-BASS  CORNER,  SANTA  CATALINA      160 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

A  CACTUS  GARDEN 165 

A  DESERT  FOREST.  NATIVE  PALMS  NEAR   PALM  SPRINGS, 

CALIFORNIA  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .170 

Photo  by  Putnam  &  Valentine 

CANDLE  CACTUS.     LOWER  CALIFORNIA  AND  ARIZONA  .       174 

Photo  by  Putnam  &  Valentine 

MISSION  OF  SANTA  BARBARA 179 

PAMPAS  GRASS,  SAN  DIEGO,  ON  EL  CAMINO  REAL         .        .       186 

Photo  by  1 1.  A.  Clarke 

PALMS  OF  THE   MISSION   OF   SAN  FERNANDO  REY  ON  THE 

KING'S  HIGHWAY 190 

Photo  by  C.  C.  Pierce 

AN  AVENUE  OF  PALMS,  Los  ANGELES 194 

MISSION  OF  SAN  DIEGO  DE  ALCALA   AND  DATE  PALMS  ON 

EL  CAMINO  REAL    ........       198 

Photo  by  C.  C.  Pierce 

MISSION  OF  SAN  Luis  REY  DE  FRANCIA  ON  THE  OLD  KING'S 

HIGHWAY .        .        .       202 

RUINS  OF  THE  MISSION  OF  SAN  ANTONIO  DE  PALA  206 


Illustrations 


PACK 


ORANGE  TREK                                        •                ...  209 

MISSION  OF  SAN  BUENAVENTURA  ON  EL  CAMINO  REAL         .  212 

1  noto  {*>*  v_«.  i  icrcc 

ELEPHANT  HEADS  AND  CAVES  OF  LA  JOLLA  NEAR  SAN  DIEGO  2  1  4 

SANTA  ANITA  RANCH,  ARCADIA,  SAN  GABRIEL  VALLEY  218 

Photo  by  Putnam  &  Valentine 

CLUSTER  LILY,  BRODMSA      .        .        .  •        •        .223 

WILD  GOAT  SHOOTING  FROM  A  BOAT,  SANTA  CATALINA       .  228 

A  BLACK  SEA-BASS  TOURNAMENTS        •.                                  •  235 

CATCH  OF  A  BLACK  SEA-BASS  WITH  ROD  AND  REEL    .         .  240 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

LA  PURISSIMA  CONCEPCION  MISSION  ON  THE  KlNG's  HIGHWAY  248 

MISSION  OF  SAN  MIGUEL  ON  EL  CAMINO  REAL  (KING'S  HIGH- 

WAY)      .....        .....  254 

A  MORNING  CATCH  BY  THE  AUTHOR     .....  259 

LANDING  THE  LEAPING  TUNA        ......  268 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

LETTING  THEM  OUT     ........  273 

SIX-IN-HAND  SWINGING  AROUND  THE  LOOP         .        .        .  278 

BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  THE  COACH  ROAD       ....  284 

SEA-LION  ROOKERY      ........  287 

SEA-LION  ROOKERY  AT  SANTA  CATALINA  ISLAND        .        .  294 

TYPICAL  FISHING  BOAT  AND  YELLOW-FIN  ALBACORE  .        .  299 

CATCH  OF  BLACK   SEA-BASS  AND  ALBACORE   AT   SANTA 

CATALINA  BY  A  WAITING  MEMBER  OF  THE  ANANIAS  CLUB  302 

THE  OCEANIC  BONITO          .......  304 

Photo  by  Chas.    Ironmonger 

MR.  HARDING'S  RECORD  WHITE  SEA-BASS    ....  307 


Illustrations  xv 


FACE 


MOUNT  SAN  ANTONIO  (10,120  FEET),  HOME  OF  MOUNTAIN 

SHEEP    ..........       312 

THE  GLASS-BOTTOM  BOATS  OF  AVALON         ....       315 

BLACK  AND  WHITE  SEA-URCHINS          .....       318 

Photo  by  P.  Reise 
IN  THE  HANGING  GARDENS  .......       322 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

THE  GLASS-BOTTOM  BOAT,  SANTA  CATALINA  ISLAND  .         .       324 


AVALON 


327 


THE  BAY  AND  VALE  OF  AVALON  .....  332 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

FERN  CANON,  SANTA  CRUZ  ISLAND      .....  336 

Photo  by  P.  Reise 

THE  VALE  OF  AVALON.  PICTURESQUE  GOLF  LINKS  AT  SANTA 

CATALINA.  ........  338 

GAFFING  AT  SHEEPS'  HEAD,  SANTA  CATALINA  ISLAND          .  341 

BEACH  FISHING  FOR  LEAPING  SHARKS,  CATALINA  HARBOUR  344 

Photo  by  Chas.  Ironmonger 

A  3oo-FooT  WAVE  AT  SAN  PEDRO         .....  346 

Photo  by  Graham 

A  MORNING'S  ROD  CATCH  OF  YELLOW-TAIL          .         .         .  349 

TAKING  THE  YELLOW-TAIL  .         ......  352 

A  GOOD  CORNER  FOR  YELLOW-TAIL      .....  356 

THE  GOLD  OF  OPHIR  ROSE  .......  359 

WINTER  FLOWERS  AT  ALTADENA,  SAN  GABRIEL  VALLEY       .  362 

Photo  by  H.  A.  Parker 

WINTER  VERDURE  IN  SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA        .         .         .  366 

Photo  by  H.  A.  Parker 

A  REDLANDS  ORANGE  GROVE  AND  HOME  IN  WINTER    .         .  368 

PASADENA'S  VARIED  CLIMATES     ......  374 

PASADENA'S  VARIED  CLIMATES  (Continued)  ....  378 


Across 

-1"* 


hounds 


Chapter  I 

Across  Country  with  Greyhounds 

THE  first  rain  had  come.  The  mountains  were 
smiling  at  the  distant  sea,  the  air  was  clear 
as  crystal,  and  had  a  rich  vibrant  quality.  The 
long,  feathery  lines  of  white  clouds  which  marked  the 
time  of  rain  had  disappeared.  No  more  the  dust  spout 
sailed  swaggering  down  along  the  Puente  Hills ;  instead, 
processions  of  geese  and  cranes  flew  along  the  high 
Sierras,  headed  to  the  south.  The  grey  hills  were 
melting  into  other  and  deeper  tints,  and  the  seeds  of 
alfileria,  that  had  formed  a  grey  mat  almost  everywhere, 
were  twisting,  boring  into  the  ground,  and  painting  the 
hills,  lowlands,  and  mesa  in  emerald  hues.  There  was  a 
crispness  to  the  air;  every  tree  and  bush  was  washed 
clean  ;  the  groves  of  the  tall  plume-like  eucalyptus  seemed 
nearer  and  greener,  and  along  the  highways  vivid  pink 
mattings  were  growing,  telling  that  a  marvellous  change 
was  imminent.  In  a  word,  it  was  near  Christmas  time 
in  Southern  California,  and  uncompromising  winter, 
with  its  roses,  its  fields  of  wild  flowers,  was  setting  in. 

3 


4  Life  in  the  Open 

In  the  valley,  one  could  hear  the  clang  of  bells  of  the 
Mission  of  San  Gabriel  as  they  rang  out,  three  miles 
away,  and  beyond  El  Toro,  over  the  divide  Don  Benito, 
listen  to  the  chimes  of  San  Juan  Capistrano  as  they 
chanted  to  the  sea. 

On  such  a  morning  I  came  down  on  to  the  mesa 
from  Las  Cacitas,  a  spur  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  where  I 
was  living,  rode  through  the  deep  carton,  whose  oaks  and 
bays  were  dripping  with  dazzling  radiance,  and  as  I  came 
out  on  to  the  mesa,  from  which  I  could  see  the  islands 
offshore,  fifty  miles  distant,  I  heard  the  tremulous  melody 
of  a  horn.  It  came  from  the  direction  of  Los  Robles, 
and  as  I  rode  on  through  the  brush,  my  horse  tossing 
the  odours  of  sage  and  other  fragrant  plants  into  the 
air,  out  from  the  long  lines  of  eucalyptus  trees  came  the 
hunt,  the  horses  with  their  Spanish  saddles  and  fascin- 
ating montadiira,  and  in  a  blue  and  tan  bunch  the  dogs, 
greyhounds  of  high  degree,  that  had  left  San  Marino  an 
hour  or  more  before. 

The  country  was  open  for  miles  near  the  Sierra 
Madre,  which  rose  abruptly  from  the  mesa,  the  land 
sandy  below  Las  Cacitas,  and  covered  with  sage  and 
low  chaparral ;  here  an  eucalyptus  grove,  a  young  olive 
orchard,  and  a  vineyard,  but  in  the  main,  open  country, 
so  that  one  could  see  several  miles  in  almost  every 
direction.  This  was  the  home  of  the  jack  rabbit  or 
hare,  said  to  be  the  fastest  runner  and  to  possess  better 
staying  powers  than  any  animal  known,  a  tree  girdler,  an 
enemy  of  the  rancher.  Sure  of  his  powers,  he  lived  in 


Ruins  of  the  Chapel,  Mission  of  San  Juan  Capistrano,  on  El  Camino  Real. 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds        5 

the  open,  affecting  the  most  barren  places.  A  bit  of 
tar  weed  or  sage  was  enough  for  him,  and  even  when 
chased  he  despised  cover  and  always  turned  to  the 
grim  mountains  and  ran  up  grade,  doubtless  to  wind 
the  horse. 

There  were  twenty  or  more  hunters,  all  well  mounted 
on  wiry  fast-running  horses,  the  master  of  the  hounds 
in  the  lead  behind  the  dogs.  There  were  greetings, 
mutual  congratulations  that  you  were  alive  in  God's 
country  on  such  a  day,  and  some  men  took  off  their 
sombreros  at  the  splendid  tints  and  colours  of  the 
mountains  that,  a  wall  of  rock,  five  or  six  thousand  feet 
high  and  forty  miles  wide,  shut  out  the  land  and  valley 
from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

The  hunt  moved  slowly  along  the  eucalyptus  groves, 
then  at  the  word  turned  in,  each  horse  taking  a  line 
or  avenue,  the  dogs  spreading  out.  Down  the  long, 
leafy  parterres  you  could  see  blue  vistas  of  sky,  catch 
glimpses  of  distant  mountains,  while  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  aroma  of  the  eucalyptus  as  the  horses'  hoofs 
cut  the  underbrush. 

The  plan  was  to  sweep  through  the  grove  and  drive 
out  any  jack  that  might  be  lying  there.  When  half- 
way through,  a  quick  cry  from  the  master  of  hounds 
gave  the  word  to  the  dogs,  that  dashed  ahead,  out  into 
the  open,  twenty  yards  or  so  behind  a  jaunty,  fluffy, 
tall-eared  thing  that  bounded  on  as  though  its  feet  bore 
rubber  cushions,  while  with  a  roar  of  sounds  the  hunt 
swept  on  in  a  long  line  at  full  and  splendid  speed. 


6  Life  in  the  Open 

There  is  nothing  more  inspiring  than  a  cavalry 
charge,  and  this  hunt  was  a  diminutive  replica  of  one. 
The  horses  were  eager  for  the  chase,  knowing  well  the 
meaning  of  the  shout,  and  at  once  broke  into  a  wild 
run  ;  and  when  they  cleared  the  grove  the  dogs  could 
be  seen  reaching  out  in  long  lines  and  the  bounding 
jack  melting  away  into  space.  At  this  stage  of  the  run 
he  is  enjoying  himself  at  our  expense.  His  long  ears 
are  up,  and  as  stiff  as  rods  of  steel.  He  runs  by  bounds 
and  has  an  air  of  disdain.  The  speed  is  increasing  every 
moment.  The  master  of  the  hounds  by  virtue  of  his 
office  is  directly  behind  them,  and  after  him,  never 
overriding  the  pack,  come  the  fortunate  ones  who  can 
keep  their  place.  Already  some  are  left  far  behind, 
but  a  few  horses  are  well  to  the  fore  and  running  at 
a  pace,  that  considering  the  country,  would  bring  a 
cheer  from  the  grandstand  at  Ascot.  The  jack  runs 
through  a  patch  of  sage-brush,  then  turns  slightly  and 
crosses  an  orchard,  and  here  is  turned  cleverly  by  old 
Ramon.  He  runs  over  a  great  white  wash,  bounding 
down  its  dangerous  sides  until  it  ends,  then  alarmed  by 
the  determined  thunder  of  bounding  hoofs,  he  turns 
gradually  and  makes  for  the  upper  mesa.  Suddenly 
the  master  of  the  hounds  shouts  a  warning.  Some  turn 
at  the  brink  of  a  knife-like  cut  or  wash,  ten  feet  deep, 
over  which  the  jack  goes  like  a  cannon  ball.  You  see 
that  he  is  taking  in  sails,  is  not  so  disdainful  ;  his  ears 
are  lying  partly  back  over  his  shoulders,  and  the  won- 
derful hind  legs  are  working  quicker  and  driving  him 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds        7 

ahead  like  piston  rods.  The  dogs  have  lost  some  time 
at  the  turn,  and  he  is  two  or  three  hundred  feet  ahead. 
Half  the  horses  are  out  of  the  game,  the  wash  is  a  dis- 
courager, and  two  philosophers  are  walking  back,  tak- 
ing the  chance  of  being  in  at  the  death  in  a  double  ;  but 
a  small  bunch  of  riders  are  well  in,  and  riding  like  the 
wind.  Long  ago  it  was  a  runaway  race  ;  no  attempt  is 
made  to  stop  or  check  the  horses  ;  it  is  their  race,  and 
some  will  not  be  stopped.  The  wind  cuts  the  face,  and 
gravel  fills  the  air,  picked  up  by  the  flying  hoofs  ;  while 
the  long  lines  of  blue  and  grey  are  creeping  up,  and  on, 
in  a  mysterious  fashion.  Perhaps  you  are  with  the 
master  of  the  hounds  in  the  lead  where  you  can  see 
every  move  of  horse,  hound,  and  game.  You  watch 
the  marvellous  machine  just  ahead  ;  the  dogs  shooting 
forward,  then  dropping  behind.  You  hear  the  master 
of  the  hounds  speak  to  them ;  now  quickly  as  the  jack 
runs  into  the  brush,  where  they  lose  sight  of  the  game 
and  are  at  sea.  You  see  them  look  at  him  and  spring 
in  the  air  in  great  steely  bounds,  glancing  quickly  around, 
then,  following  the  direction  indicated  by  his  horse,  rush- 
ing out  into  the  open.  The  hare  is  running  down  a 
vineyard,  doubtless  hoping  to  throw  some  unfortunate 
riders  on  to  the  black  ugly  stumps,  just  leafing  out. 

But  the  horses  know  the  place  well,  and  just  at  the 
end  the  dogs  close  in  and  turn  again,  forcing  the  hare 
down  through  the  level  field.  You  see  him  now,  not 
fifty  feet  ahead  ;  not  the  jocund  tree  girdler  that  bounded 
out  of  the  eucalyptus  grove  half  an  hour  before,  but 


8  Life  in  the  Open 

a  long  grey  object  with  ears  flattened  out  upon  his  back 
— a  sure  signal  of  distress — and  a  certain  halting  motion 
that  those  well  in  the  front  take  as  an  indication  of 
a  coming  trick,  a  "  grandstand  play  "  for  which  the  game 
is  famous,  and  here  it  is. 

The  jack  apparently  disappears ;  horses  are  jerked 
on  to  their  haunches,  a  cloud  of  dust  rises,  dogs  reach 
out  and  snap  at  something  as  it  passes,  phantom-like, 
and  you  and  I  and  the  master  of  the  hounds  are  away 
on  exactly  the  back  track,  and  the  jack  has  gained  one 
hundred  feet.  If  you  have  been  at  the  front  you  will 
know  what  it  all  means.  The  jack  stopped  suddenly 
turned  about  a  clump  of  sage  in  the  open,  and  dashed 
back  directly  beneath  the  horses'  feet.  Mouse,  my  own 
hound,  misses  him  by  the  length  of  a  tail,  and  other 
hounds  snap  at  him  as  he  goes  by,  unable  to  stop 
themselves,  while  the  clever  hare,  taking  all  the  chances, 
dashes  beneath  the  horses,  and  makes  a  splendid  play  for 
liberty.  This  turn  is  shown  in  the  accompanying  pic- 
ture *  by  Brewer,  from  a  sketch  of  my  own  made  from 
memory  as  I  saw  the  manoeuvre,  the  jack  running 
directly  between  the  feet  of  my  horse,  which  should 
be  shown  nearer  in  the  illustration.  It  is  here  that  the 
hunter  who  has  given  out  and  is  looking  on  from  some 
comfortable  vantage-ground,  often  comes  into  his  own 
without  the  attendant  exertions,  as  the  jack  comes  back, 
and  possibly  is  killed  in  front  of  him. 

In  five  minutes  the  horses  and  riders  that  have  stood 

1  Page  — . 


A  Sudden  Turn  observed  by  the  Author. 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds       9 

the  pace  are  again  surging  to  the  front.  The  horses 
are  wild  with  excitement ;  it  is  their  hunt  and  they 
know  the  finish  is  near.  Several  miles  have  been  left 
behind,  and  the  run  has  been  over  unbroken  country. 
Now  a  blue  dog  seems  to  shoot  ahead  of  the  jack.  He 
has  been  behind  all  the  time,  and  you  have  half  expected 
to  see  him  drop  out ;  but  Pasqual  has  come  into  his 
second  wind  and  makes  a  turn  that  brings  a  shout  from 
every  saddle.  "  Good  Pasqual !  "  "  Bravo,  Ramon  ! " 
He  turns  the  hare  that  is  met  by  Mouse ;  but  she 
misses.  There  is  a  flurry,  and  away  down  the  mesa 
into  a  spreading  wash  they  go,  over  into  an  orange 
grove,  with  a  roar  of  sounds,  and  the  jack  in  a  desper- 
ate effort  to  wind  the  horses  takes  the  long  palm-envi- 
roned drive  toward  a  ranch  house,  and  like  a  whirlwind 
the  horses  and  dogs  follow. 

The  ranch  house  is  straight  ahead,  and  my  friend 
has  a  long  wide  hall  running  through  it,  for  which  the 
jack  apparently  is  headed.  I  am  wondering  whether  — 
will  object  to  the  hunt  running  through  his  home,  when 
out  he  comes  with  arms  uplifted.  He  does  object,  there 
is  no  question  as  to  that,  but  it  is  the  finish.  A  long, 
tan-coloured  hound  shoots  ahead,  a  fluffy  hare  goes  up 
into  the  air,  and  the  hounds  close  around,  while  one  of 
the  hunters  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  stop  his  horse  and 
keep  him  from  a  flower  garden  goes  on,  and — tell  it  not 
in  Gath — lands  on  his  back  among  the  pansies. 

It  is  a  famous  run.     The  death  or  finish  was  three 
miles  from  the  start  as  the  crow  flies.    The  dogs  are  lying 


10  Life  in  the  Open 

flat,  panting  like  machines,  but  happy,  delighted,  and 
rolling  a  glance  of  congratulation  at  you,  or  giving  you 
greeting  by  a  wag  of  the  tail.  If  they  could  speak  they 
would  all  say  it  was  the  run  of  their  lives.  Along  comes 
the  man  with  a  canteen,  each  dog  drinks  and  its  face 
and  mouth  are  washed,  and  each  master  and  mistress 
tells  each  hound  just  what  he  or  she  thinks,  and  compli- 
ments between  man  and  beast  fly  thick  and  fast.  The  sad- 
dles are  uncinched,  the  horses  walked  up  and  down  and 
given  a  drink  when  cooler.  The  stragglers  have  come  in, 
and  the  hunt,  refreshed,  stands  in  the  cooling  shade  of 
the  eucalyptus  grove,  and  discusses  the  situation. 

Such  was  a  typical  run  with  the  San  Marino  or 
the  Valley  Hunt  hounds  of  Pasadena  ;  hard,  furious, 
dangerous  sport,  the  hare  having  an  open  country  and 
by  far  the  advantage.  To  ride  over  such  a  region  with 
its  washes  and  burrows,  the  rider  took  every  chance,  and 
the  game  often  escaped ;  wearing  out  horse,  rider,  and 
hound.  There  can  hardly  be  any  pastime  within  the 
realm  of  sport  more  exciting  than  this.  It  was  my  for- 
tune to  act  as  master  of  the  hounds  in  many  hunts,  and 
my  place  was  directly  behind  the  dogs,  where  every  move 
of  hound  or  game  could  be  seen  ;  and  as  a  study  of 
strenuous  sport  it  was  without  peer ;  horses  and  dogs 
enjoyed  it,  the  jack  being  the  only  exception,  and  he 
was  a  pest  and  menace  to  the  rancher. 

The  hunt,  refreshed,  winds  out  of  the  grove  and 
turns  in  the  direction  of  the  mountains,  following  along 
the  slopes.  It  is  midwinter  in  the  East,  the  whole  land 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds      n 

is  in  the  grip  of  ice  and  snow ;  but  here  the  air  is  soft 
on  the  cheek,  the  carol  of  countless  birds  fills  the  air, 
and  drowsy  butterflies,  yellow  and  white,  are  flitting 
about  the  fields — harbingers  of  spring.  On  one  side 
the  wall  of  the  Sierras  stands  menacing  and  grim,  cut  by 
many  canons,  rich  in  deep  greens,  that  like  rivers  wind 
skyward.  Near  at  hand  the  mountains  are  grey  and 
green  in  patches ;  but  as  they  reach  away  toward  San 
Antonio  they  become  blue  painted  with  ineffable  tints. 
Ahead  the  San  Rafael  Hills  rise  in  velvet  mounds,  with 
radiant  lights  and  shades,  telling  of  rippling  oats  and 
barley ;  like  great  billows  they  are  tumbling  on  and  on 
to  the  distant  lowlands.  To  the  south  but  turn  the  eye, 
and  the  green  slope  of  the  Sierras  is  seen  reaching  the 
distant  sea  ;  a  fantasie  in  colour ;  squares  of  green  and 
yellow,  blocks  of  vivid  green,  mounds  of  undulating 
emerald,  and  beyond  the  line  of  silver  surf  and  the  blue 
sea  with  its  caps  of  islands.  A  fairer  land,  a  fairer 
hunting  day  you  will  rarely  find  under  this  Christmas 
sun. 

Another  hare  is  started  and  the  hunt  is  again  in  full 
run,  sweeping  up  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  down 
into  vineyards,  where  often  several  jacks  are  started  ; 
but  the  hounds  concentrate  their  attention  on  one,  and 
the  finish  comes  up  near  the  entrance  to  the  cafton  Las 
Flores,  where  the  drags,  coaches,  and  carriages  have  met. 
Lunch  is  laid  under  the  trees  in  some  adjacent  grove, 
and  the  incidents  and  events  of  the  hunt  are  again  dis- 
cussed and  good  dogs  are  rewarded.  Such  a  hunt  well 


12  Life  in  the  Open 

illustrates  life  in  the  open  in  Southern  California  and  its 
possibilities. 

Many  towns  and  cities  have  spread  out  over  the 
land,  and  Southern  California  bids  fair  to  become  over- 
civilised  and  settled  up.  But  the  jack  rabbit  is  not  to 
be  crowded  out.  A  wily  fellow  lives  near  my  home, 
and  I  have  seen  him  entertaining  himself  by  leading  the 
dogs  down  a  wide  avenue,  a  fashionable  thoroughfare  of 
the  town  ;  and  in  the  suburbs  he  may  be  always  found. 
This  is  true  of  all  the  foothill  cities  from  Pomona  and 
Ontario  to  Riverside  and  Redlands  and  beyond,  while 
San  Diego  and  Coronado  afford  excellent  fields  for  this 
adventurous  pastime. 

There  is  also  excellent  sport  to  be  had  on  the  ranches 
near  Santa  Ana  and  Orange,  and  in  valleys  near  the 
San  Joaquin,  one  of  the  most  successful  hunts  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Valley  Hunt  of  Pasadena  being  near  Orange, 
where  it  was  the  guest  of  the  Count  and  Countess  von 
Schmidt. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Los  Angeles  the  best  hunting 
localities  are  the  San  Fernando  Valley  and  the  lower 
reaches  and  washes  of  Baldwin's  ranch,  which  may  give 
one  an  excuse  to  ride  through  this  splendid  domain, 
with  its  groves  of  eucalyptus,  orange,  and  lemon,  and  its 
charming  vistas  of  land  and  laguna.  Some  of  the  best 
hunting  I  have  had  in  Southern  California  has  been  in 
the  southern  part  of  this  ranch  and  near  Sunny  Slope 
ranch,  where  a  pack  of  fine  greyhounds  is  maintained 
to  reduce  the  tree  and  vine  girdlers ;  and  nearly  all 


Charles  Winston's  Sunny  Slope  Hounds — La  Manda. 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds      13 

large  ranches  keep  greyhounds  to  kill  off  this  menace  to 
the  crops. 

The  jack  rabbit  is  a  hare,  and  nests  on  the  surface, 
rarely  if  ever  taking  to  burrows  or  anything  of  the  kind. 
He  prefers  to  run  in  the  open,  to  dodge  behind  hedges 
and  trees.  For  many  years  I  hunted  with  my  own 
dogs,  and,  when  President  of  the  Valley  Hunt,  often 
acted  as  master  of  the  hounds,  when  it  was  my  duty  to 
keep  up  with  the  pack  and  direct  it  on  the  runs  ;  con- 
sequently I  had  many  opportunities  to  watch  the  dogs 
and  game  in  all  stages  of  the  chase.  The  Valley  Hunt 
pack  of  ten  or  fifteen  hounds  was  in  charge  of  a  hunts- 
man or  keeper,  and  generally  there  were  two  masters  of 
hounds,  members  of  the  club,  who  took  charge  of  the 
dogs  on  a  hunt,  and  went  with  them,  a  hard  riding 
position.  Courtesy  required  that  the  hunt  should  not 
pass  him  ;  indeed,  it  was  the  duty  of  the  one  in  charge 
to  see  that  excited  members  did  not  override  the 
hounds.  The  hunt  could  keep  as  near  the  master  of 
the  hounds  as  it  could  get,  but  could  not  pass.  When 
the  game  reached  cover,  he  had  to  keep  the  jack  in 
sight,  and  see  that  the  dogs  obeyed  his  call ;  and  so  well 
did  the  hounds  understand  this,  that  often  they  would 
not  lose  a  foot,  though  they  lost  sight  of  the  game  for 
several  minutes.  A  greyhound  named  "  Mouse  "would, 
in  high  grass,  leap  on  to  my  horse  behind  my  saddle, 
and,  with  one  arm  over  her,  I  would  ride  slowly  along. 
When  a  hare  was  started  she  would  see  it,  note  its  direc- 
tion, leap  down,  and  rarely  miss  it.  It  is  sometimes  said 


14  Life  in  the  Open 

that  greyhounds  lack  intelligence  and  affection,  but 
never  was  there  a  greater  mistake.  A  good  greyhound 
is  one  of  the  best  of  dogs,  of  aristocratic  mien,  a  type 
of  strength,  power,  and  staying  qualities,  with  a  love  for 
hunting,  cleanly,  beautiful,  and  affectionate. 

The  jack  will  often  nonplus  a  very  clever  dog.  I  once 
made  a  long  run  nearly  to  the  mountains,  and  when  at  the 
upper  rise  of  the  mesa,  horse,  dog,  and  hare  began  to  give 
out.  After  a  while  we  came  down  to  a  trot,  then  to  a 
walk,  and  the  jack,  apparently  scarcely  able  to  move,  ran 
to  a  big  fir  tree,  and  around  it  several  times,  chased  by 
the  hound,  that  was  so  desperately  winded  that  she  could 
not  catch  the  jack.  I  reined  in  my  horse,  not  twenty 
feet  distant,  and  watched  the  absurd  dtnoument,  laugh- 
ing heartily  at  my  dog  Mouse,  a  very  clever  animal. 
She  soon  became  dizzy  and  stopped  running,  then 
walked  uncertainly  over  to  me  in  a  most  shamefaced 
manner  and  sat  on  her  haunches,  while  the  jack  faced  us 
for  a  second  in  sheer  amazement.  He  had  doubtless 
been  the  hero  of  numerous  chases  and  was  bewildered, 
but  the  dog  and  I  agreed  that  he  had  earned  his  lib- 
erty, and  we  sat  and  watched  him  limp  away  into  the 
chaparral. 

Such  sport  as  this  is  not  to  be  confused  with 
"  coursing  " — a  cowardly,  brutal  game  that  cannot  hold 
its  own  in  any  country  among  gentlemen.  The  hare  is 
released  in  an  enclosure  and  chased  by  hounds,  with  no 
possible  chance  of  escape ;  while  in  the  open,  in  a  fair 
chase  across  country,  the  chances  are  against  the  rider, 


Walk  at  the  Mission  of  Santa  Barbara  on  El  Camino  Real. 


Across  Country  with  Greyhounds      15 

and  the  tree  girdler  has  every  opportunity  to  escape, 
as  where  horses  are  in  trouble  he  flies  over  the  ground 
like  a  bird  and  often  lives  to  run  another  day. 

The  hunt  breakfast  ends,  the  well-rested  horses  and 
hounds  walk  slowly  down  the  valley  again,  on  the  look- 
out for  game,  the  carriages  and  drags  following,  stop- 
ping here  and  there  to  see  the  exciting  runs ;  and  late 
in  the  afternoon,  perhaps,  the  hunt  winds  down  the  long 
sweeping  mesa,  headed  for  home,  that  may  be  ten  miles 
away,  if  the  run  has  led  them  down  to  the  Baldwin 
wash,  or  it  may  be  but  a  mile ;  but  no  matter  where, 
the  weary  riders  have  the  panorama  of  the  hills  as  in- 
spiration. As  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western  peaks 
of  the  Coast  Range,  a  splendid  transformation  scene  is 
staged  on  slope  and  mesa.  The  tips  of  the  Sierras  are 
wreathed  with  light,  and  out  from  each  cafton  and  gulch 
dark  shadows  creep,  encroaching  slowly  on  the  fields  of 
yellow  and  gold.  Slowly  the  hills  take  on  a  roseate 
hue  that  grows  in  intensity  and  splendour  as  the  sun 
drops  into  the  sea.  Deeper  it  becomes  ;  now  crimson, 
then  scarlet,  a  gorgeous  drapery  that  slowly  fades  and 
melts  into  purple  until  the  entire  range,  except  where 
the  snow-caps  of  San  Antonio  are  bathed  in  the  fiery 
glow,  is  invested  with  the  deep  panoply  of  night. 

From  down  the  valley,  filtering  through  the  wind- 
breaks of  eucalpytus  trees,  comes  softly  on  the  wind 
the  flute-like  tremulo  of  the  horn — the  adios  of  the 
huntsman  and  his  hounds. 


Chapter  II 

Hunting  the  Lynx 


ONE  of  the  charms  of  Southern  California  lies 
in  the  fact  that  the  towns  and  many  cities  are 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  open  country, 
or  the  mountains.  Los  Angeles  is  but  thirteen  miles 
from  the  main  range  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  a  jumble  of 
mountains  so  steep  and  forbidding  that  trained  mount- 
aineers have  been  confused  by  their  precipitous  caftons 
and  sharp  divides.  There  is  hardly  a  village,  town,  or 
city  where  wild  country  is  not  available  in  some  form  in  a 
short  distance.  The  stroller  up  the  east  branch  of  the  Los 
Angeles  River,  the  Arroyo  Seco,  is  led  by  agreeable  paths 
on  this  winter  day  into  a  cafton,  down  which  a  small 
stream  flows,  now  on  the  surface,  again  sinking  beneath 
it,  flowing  on  and  on  to  the  distant  sea.  Here  it  has 
high  banks,  and  has  cut  into  a  series  of  hills  that  are  a 
blaze  of  yellow,  carpeted  with  a  small  daisy-like  flower. 
Everywhere  the  river-bed  is  filled  with  polished  stones, 
and  along  the  banks  patches  of  silver  foxtail  grass  nod 
in  the  sunlight,  and  in  the  shallows  windrows  of  mica 
gleam  in  lines  of  gold. 

19 


20  Life  in  the  Open 

The  hills  grow  higher.  Here  they  are  undermined, 
the  talus  partly  covered  by  masses  of  wild  oat  whose 
surface  ripples  in  catspaws  in  changing  tints  of  green. 
Along  the  low  left  bank  are  lavender  flashes  among  the 
rocks,  telling  of  the  wild  pea,  while  the  yellow  glow  of 
the  primrose  and  the  blue  of  the  larkspur  are  caught 
against  the  green  of  the  chaparral.  Soon  the  arroyo 
widens,  and  live  oaks  are  seen  in  a  little  basin.  The 
sullen  roar  of  the  city  is  still  heard,  but  the  sky  is  bright, 
the  sweet  song  of  birds  fills  the  air.  Surely  it  is  not 
February  along  this  verdant  arroyo  ?  You  may  climb 
the  hill  and  look  out  over  distant  fields  of  rippling  grain 
and  a  marvellous  coat  of  green  that  robes  the  land  from 
mountains  to  the  sea.  Winter  it  is,  fair  and  uncompro- 
mising, permitting  flowers,  soft  air,  and  clear  skies. 
Not  the  winter  of  the  tropics,  hot  and  enervating,  but 
a  winter  of  content,  crisp,  with  just  a  soup9on  of 
frost  in  the  early  morning  to  make  the  scent  good  and 
clear. 

The  scent,  ah  !  that  is  what  you  are  after.  Are  you 
not  on  horseback  ?  and  there,  standing  under  the  oaks, 

is  Don  A ,  with  his  famous  foxhounds,  Melody, 

Music,  and  others,  and  coming  down  the  road  are  other 
hunters  and  the  hounds  of  the  Valley  Hunt. 

The  meet  is  at  the  cienaga,  and  it  is  proposed  to 
work  the  green  hills  to  the  east  and  south  for  the  lynx, 
common  game  in  Southern  California,  game  that  uses 
the  big  arroyo  and  washes  as  highways  from  the  mount- 
ains. All  the  hunters  are  mounted,  and  Don  A 


Hunting  the  Lynx  21 

sounds  his  silver-throated  horn,  calls  in  the  straying 
dogs,  and  outlines  the  plan  of  action.  A  few  hunters 
are  to  go  around  the  hill  with  the  hounds,  the  rest  are 
to  remain  in  the  arroyo  and  keep  the  game  within 
bounds.  You  elect  to  go,  and,  making  a  long  detour, 
climb  the  slopes,  the  hounds  entering  the  hills.  Already 
Music  has  the  scent,  and  the  blood-stirring  melody,  like 
nothing  else  in  the  world,  comes  rippling  through  the 
air,  O-O^o-o,  and  is  taken  up  by  Melody,  who  is  standing 
looking  at  the  scenery  for  a  second,  then  she  sends  the 
news  down  to  the  hunters  below  that  not  many  hours 
before  a  soft  velvet-footed  lynx  passed  that  way  from 
some  looting,  and  is  not  so  far  away. 

Again  comes  the  baying  of  the  hounds,  pouring  over 
the  hill  and  dropping  into  the  little  caftada,  to  be  taken) 
up  by  others.  The  hilltops  here,  six  or  eight  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea,  one  hundred  or  more  above  the 
arroyo,  form  a  spur  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  that  reaches 
down  toward  Los  Angeles  and  to  the  east,  merging  into 
the  Puente  Hills,  a  splendid  winter  highway  for  game 
where  there  is  cover,  and  for  coyotes  at  any  time.  On 
the  surface  were  disconnected  bunches  of  low  brush, 
giving  the  slopes  a  park-like  effect,  and  farther  on  groves 
of  white  oak  with  spreading  branches  beneath  which 
nodded  the  shooting-star,  the  mariposa  lily  and  the 
graceful  stalks  of  Brodaea. 

Into  this  garden  of  the  hills  the  hounds  ran  just 
ahead  of  my  horse,  following  the  scent,  now  and  then 
baying  soft  and  low,  working  through  the  tall  grass 


22  Life  in  the  Open 

until  they  came  to  the  oaks,  when  Music  gave  the  signal 
and  the  entire  pack  broke  into  the  volume  of  sounds 
that  tells  of  fresh  scent.  Few  horses  with  a  drop  of 
sporting  blood  in  their  veins  can  resist  the  sound,  and 
mine  reared,  plunged,  and  pawed  the  air  in  eagerness 
to  run  ;  but  the  hounds  had  not  found  the  game,  and  I 
followed  slowly  while  they  made  the  welkin  ring.  I 
could  hear  the  answering  baying  from  over  the  cliff  in 
the  arroyo  as  I  rode  into  the  oak  grove,  then  over  the 
divide  to  the  south  slope. 

The  hounds  were  now  running  at  full  speed,  past  the 
cactus  patches,  along  rocky  slopes,  down  into  a  deep 
cafton  where  the  baying  broke  into  a  roar,  and  then  over 
the  edge  of  the  arroyo  a  fourth  of  a  mile  above,  where 
my  horse,  settling  down  upon  his  haunches,  slid  down 
with  the  miniature  avalanche,  then  running  down-stream 
at  full  speed  to  find  the  hounds  out  on  the  face  of  a  cliff 
crawling  along  on  narrow  ledges,  slipping  and  rolling, 
while  in  the  very  centre  of  the  stage,  in  full  sight,  was 
the  lynx.  She  appeared  to  ignore  the  hounds,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  glance  behind,  then  picking  her  way 
along,  step  by  step,  looking  down  at  the  horses,  again 
stopping  to  weigh  the  chances  of  the  situation. 

It  seemed  impossible  for  a  dog  to  reach  her,  but  Don 

A and  I  knew  that  Music  was  a  sort  of  canine  fly, 

and  he  quickly  gave  a  vivid  demonstration  of  it,  crawl- 
ing out  on  the  trail  of  the  big  cat,  now  perfectly  silent, 
while  other  dogs  made  the  arroyo  ring  with  sounds. 
The  lynx  was  surrounded.  She  faced  a  dog  in  front, 


IBS 

a 
a 
o 

I 
"S 

B 

M 

a 
>. 

- 


Hunting  the  Lynx  23 

others  were  above  and  behind,  and  the  hunt  stood  in 
the  stream,  one  hundred  feet  below.  There  was  wager- 
ing among  the  lookers-on  as  to  what  she  would  do,  but 
she  quickly  decided  it.  Music  reached  within  ten  feet 
of  her  short  tail,  when  she  turned  and  came  down  the 
face  of  the  cliff  like  a  rubber  ball,  bounding  from  rock 
to  rock,  and  when  within  a  few  feet  of  the  bottom 
with  a  savage  front  sprang  fairly  into  the  pack  and 
horses. 

It  was  a  brave  and  clever  trick,  as  a  dozen  jaws 
snapped  at  her,  but  when  she  struck  the  rock  she 
seemed  to  bound  into  the  air,  and  dashed  among  the 
feet  of  plunging  horses,  making  a  run  of  perhaps  one 
hundred  yards,  and  when  the  hunt  recovered  from  its 
surprise  she  was  sitting  in  the  top  of  a  large  oak,  her 
eyes  gleaming  fire,  her  short  tail  twitching,  treed,  but 
not  caught,  and  around  the  trunk  gathered  the  pack 
baying,  filling  the  air  with  what  were  now  menacing 
sounds.  The  trunk  of  the  tree  stood  at  an  angle,  and 
Ranger,  an  old  tree-climber,  was  presently  fifteen  feet 
up  and  out  on  a  limb,  from  which  he  had  to  be  helped 
down.  Some  of  these  dogs  were  marvellous  tree-climb- 
ers, but  even  a  dog  is  helpless  where  he  can  fall. 

I  hauled  myself  from  the  saddle  into  the  tree  and 
climbed  slowly  upward.  The  lynx  did  not  move  until  I 
had  reached  a  point  within  twenty  feet  of  her,  where  I 
sat  a  moment  and  looked  her  over.  She  was  a  minia- 
ture lynx,  with  small  tufted  ears,  a  rich  spotted  coat,  and 
pronounced  reddish  "  whiskers."  The  head  was  large, 


24  Life  in  the  Open 

and  the  eyes,  which  looked  into  mine,  blazed  with  the 
same  yellow  light  you  may  see  in  the  glance  of  the 
black  leopard. 

When  I  made  an  offensive  movement,  she  stood  up, 
showing  the  long,  powerful  legs  and  the  short  tail, 
which  was  twitching  from  side  to  side  in  a  significant 
fashion.  I  climbed  higher  and  thrust  a  branch  at  her, 
whereupon  she  darted  out  on  to  a  limb,  and  with  one 
glance  and  snarl  at  me,  went  crashing  down  through 
the  resilient  screen  of  green  into  the  pack. 

When  I  dropped  on  to  my  horse  again,  the  hunt 
was  sweeping  up  the  arroyo  and  through  the  chaparral ; 
coming  to  a  cliff  the  lynx  clambered  up  the  side,  but 
was  again  driven  out,  two  dogs  rolling  down  forty  or 
more  feet,  then  forced  across  the  stream  and  treed  in  a 
dense  patch  of  brush,  into  which  the  infuriated  hounds 
vainly  essayed  to  climb. 

From  here  she  was  finally  dislodged,  and  in  making 
the  leap  she  missed  me  by  a  very  few  inches.  I  had 
dismounted  and  was  holding  my  horse  when  I  saw  her 
coming  by  my  head,  literally  dropping  out  of  the  sky, 
four  paws  out ;  when  she  struck  she  bounded  upward 
like  a  ball,  and  the  pack  literally  fell  over  me  in  their 
attempts  to  reach  her.  But  some  miraculous  dodging 
power  aided  the  tribe,  as  she  again  eluded  them,  and 
was  treed  after  a  hard  run  through  the  chaparral,  from 
which  she  ran  down  through  an  arcade  of  wild  grape 
vines  and  reached  the  hills  again,  where  she  threw  the 
dogs  off.  A  long  stretch  of  country  was  scoured  before 


3 
5 


ca 

•s 
- 
<a 

CO 


Hunting  the  Lynx  25 

the  scent  was  picked  up,  and  after  another  run  the  game 
was  treed  in  a  large  sycamore. 

Two  hours  had  slipped  by,  and  the  excitement  and 
speed  of  the  runs  had  told  on  the  dogs,  which  were 
yelping  with  rage  and  disappointment.  They  now  ran 
about  the  tree  baying  in  ominous  tones,  their  tongues 
hanging  out,  and  the  long  mournful  O-O-o-o,  O-O-o-o,  ris- 
ing on  the  air  like  the  tolling  of  bells.  Up  into  the  tree 
went  another  hunter,  and  the  hunt  backed  off  to  give  the 
animal  fair  play,  that  was  the  essence  of  the  sport.  She 
waited  until  he  reached  her,  snarling  at  him  viciously, 
then  creeping  out  on  to  the  tip  of  a  limb,  glanced  about, 
and  made  one  of  the  pluckiest  jumps  I  have  ever  seen 
or  heard  of,  going  down  clear  forty  or  fifty  feet,  bound- 
ing on  her  rubber-like  pads  several  feet  into  the  air, 
then  fighting  her  way  through  the  dogs,  cutting  as  she 
went.  She  ran  fifty  feet  on  the  level,  when  Music  shot 
ahead  and  rolled  her  over,  and  bedlam  broke  loose  as 
the  pack  poured  in.  At  least  half  the  hounds  were  cut 
or  slashed  by  this  vicious  animal  that  fought  with  tooth 
and  claw,  throwing  herself  upon  her  back,  and  snarling 
like  a  fiend.  Several  dogs  were  retired  before  she  suc- 
cumbed. Hanging  from  my  saddle  she  nearly  touched 
the  ground,  a  fine  specimen  of  lynx,  in  good  condition. 
On  her  skin,  which  I  had  mounted  as  a  rug,  various 
young  hounds  were  introduced  to  their  first  game,  and 
it  is  fair  to  say  that  they  ultimately  wore  out  the  rug  in 
these  practice  hunts. 

The  hunt  now  worked  up  the  arroyo  beyond  the 


26  Life  in  the  Open 

town  of  Garvanza,  eight  miles  from  Los  Angeles,  and 
entered  a  well-wooded  pass,  where  the  dogs  took  a  scent 
and  ran  a  mile  along  the  San  Rafael  Hills.  The  scent 
grew  fresher,  until  finally  a  roar  of  sounds  indicated 
something  brought  to  bay  at  the  foot  of  a  giant  syca- 
more in  an  almost  impenetrable  jungle  of  scrub  oak,  tall 
briar  rose,  and  other  brush.  Using  my  heavy  crop  I 
broke  a  way  in,  to  find  one  of  the  dogs  wedged  in  a 
hole,  surrounded  by  others  who  were  so  crazed  by  the 
proximity  of  the  game  that  they  fell  all  over  me.  I 
managed  to  seize  the  hound  by  the  hind  legs  and  pull 
him  out  by  main  force,  and  with  him  came,  not  a  lynx, 
but  a  raccoon,  which  had  seized  the  hound  by  the  paw 
and  held  on  with  the  grip  of  a  bulldog,  held  on  until  I 
pulled  it  completely  out,  and  the  dogs  fell  upon  it. 

The  arroyo  was  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  feet  deep 
here,  its  sides  precipitous,  filled  with  underbrush  and 
large  trees  ;  sycamores  and  black  oaks  growing  on  the 
banks,  cottonwoods,  alders,  and  others  in  the  centre  and 
on  the  sides,  with  little  meadows  here  and  there  above 
the  stream.  The  wild  grape  had  climbed  many  of  the 
trees  and  interlaced  them  in  a  radiant  drapery  of  green, 
forming  a  natural  jungle  for  the  wildcat,  raccoon ,  and 
fox.  The  hounds  presently  caught  a  scent,  and  after  a 
short  run  treed  a  large  lynx,  a  process  that  was  repeated 
half  a  score  of  times  before  she  was  finally  captured, 
proving  a  most  gamy  animal. 

The  Arroyo  Seco,  a  river  of  verdure  if  not  water, 
reaching  down  from  the  mountains,  is  a  natural  park, 


Hunting  the  Lynx  2j 

the  gulch  forming  the  western  boundary  of  Pasadena. 
As  I  write,  two  minutes'  walk  from  its  fragrant  edge,  over 
which  I  can  see  the  tops  of  its  trees  from  my  lawn,  I  hear 
the  melody  of  a  hound  calling,  O-O-o-o,  telling  me  that 
somewhere  in  its  green  heart  the  foot-cushions  of  a  lynx 
have  left  their  imprint  on  the  yielding  sand.  I  some- 
times go  down  in  the  afternoon  and  smooth  it  over  in 
the  middle  of  the  moist  stream-bed,  then  visit  it  in 
the  morning  to  read  the  story.  Here  are  quail  tracks,  the 
long  foot  of  a  cottontail,  the  sinuous  trail  of  a  snail,  the 
big  print  of  a  dog — some  hound  hunting  for  pleasure, — 
and  the  round  footprint  of  the  lynx,  with  that  of  a 
raccoon  or  possibly  a  fox.  Indeed,  the  casual  stroller 
through  this  green  arroyo  in  winter  might  never  see  an 
animal  larger  than  a  quail  or  rabbit,  yet  the  sandy  trails 
tell  of  a  diversity  of  game  that  walks  abroad  o'  nights  or 
comes  down  the  dry  green  river  from  the  mountains  to 
visit  the  haunts  of  man. 

Nearly  every  cafton  in  Southern  California  has  its 
quota  of  lynxes,  generally  of  two  kinds.  Those  leading 
from  the  main  range  are  most  frequented,  but  in  nearly 
every  arroyo  of  any  size  where  there  is  underbrush  and 
trees  there  will  be  found  the  gamy  and  savage  enemy  of 
the  rancher. 

All  along  the  Sierra  Madre,  from  San  Luis  Obispo 
to  San  Diego,  the  sport  may  be  had,  and  several  well- 
known  packs  of  hounds  are  kept  in  California — nota- 
bly the  Kentucky  pack  of  thoroughbreds  of  Mr.  William 
G.  Burns,  of  the  Pasadena  Country  Club.  These  hounds 


28  Life  in  the  Open 

are  trained  to  drag -hunting  as  well,  and  have  made 
some  spirited  runs  over  the  beautiful  country  at  the  head 
of  the  San  Gabriel  Valley.  There  are  two  or  three 
small  packs  of  hounds  in  and  about  Pasadena ;  one 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  San  Fernando  Valley,  and  per- 
haps the  best  and  largest  in  the  Santiago  Cafton,  a  val- 
ley to  the  south  of  the  San  Gabriel,  reaching  down  to 
the  sea.  Here,  extending  out  from  the  foothills  which 
constitute  a  sort  of  coast  range  ten  or  fifteen  miles  from 
it,  some  of  the  finest  lynx  or  wild  cat  hunting  in  Cali- 
fornia is  found.  The  country  is  beautifully  situated, 
being  in  the  main  a  splendid  oak  park  with  a  series 
of  well-wooded  canons.  Nearly  all  are  occupied  by 
ranchers,  and  well  up  Santiago  Canon  is  the  attractive 
mountain  home  of  Mr.  J.  E.  Pleasants,  Master  of 
Hounds  of  the  Santiago  Hunt  Club  of  Orange,  whose 
hospitality  and  meets  are  well  known. 

This  club  has  hunted  the  country  nine  or  ten  years, 
and  game,  fox,  coyote,  and  lynx,  is  so  plentiful  that  there 
is  constant  exercise  for  the  pack.  The  dogs,  Trilby, 
Don,  Pluto,  Mack,  Diana,  Flash,  and  many  more,  are 
from  Southern  stock,  recruited  from  Virginia,  Kentucky, 
Georgia,  and  Alabama,  and  some  of  them,  owned  by 
the  hunt  and  Dr.  Page  of  Pasadena,  are  remarkable 
hunters.  The  master  of  the  hounds  lives  up  the  cafton 
twenty  miles  from  the  city  of  Santa  Ana,  and  twice  a 
year,  in  May  and  October,  special  hunts  are  enjoyed 
that  have  a  wide  reputation.  They  are  held  in  Orange 
County  Park,  a  fine  piece  of  well-wooded  country  about 


The  Bells  of  Mission  San  Gabriel  Arcangel  near  Pasadena. 


Hunting  the  Lynx  2g 

ten  miles  from  Santa  Ana  and  stretching  along  the  south 
face  of  the  foothills.  Several  hundred  people  attend 
them,  and  go  in  conveyances  of  all  kinds,  and  with  tents 
camp  out  in  the  grove,  forming  a  small  village.  Famous 
cooks,  the  Serranos,  are  on  hand,  and  after  the  hunt 
there  is  a  barbecue,  Mexican  fashion,  where  chili  con 
carne,  chili  color  ado,  tomales,  and  tortillas  are  served,  and 
if  the  hunter  is  not  fired  by  the  hunt  he  is  by  the  feast 
that  savours  of  the  days  of  Lucullus.  It  is  worth  a  trip 
to  California  to  see  Sefior  Serrano  and  his  brother  bar- 
becue a  steer,  and  toss  or  turn  the  meat  with  a  pitchfork 
by  the  light  of  the  moon  as  it  pours  down  through  the 
great  black  live  oaks. 

The  hunts  average  twenty  lynxes  and  fifteen  foxes 
a  year,  and  in  the  driest  weather  the  hounds  have  no 
difficulty  in  taking  the  foxes.  These  meets  are  looked 
forward  to  with  pleasure  and  delight,  and  in  the  gloom 
of  the  live-oak  forests  one  meets  many  famous  Califor- 
nians  and  lovers  of  sport,  none  of  whom  are  more 
enthusiastic  than  Dr.  Benjamin  Page,  who  can  tell  you 
every  hound  by  his  voice  and  the  exact  stage  of  the 
game,  just  as  he  knows  the  highest  peaks  of  the  Sierras, 
the  deepest  cartons,  and  all  the  famous  trout  pools  of 
Southern  California  along  the  high  Sierras  as  they  over- 
look the  great  desert  of  the  south.  It  is  good  to  see  the 
old-time  hunting  gentleman  imparting  his  enthusiasm  to 
the  younger  generation  and  handing  it  down  as  a  legacy. 

The  Southern  California  lynx,  Lynx  rufus,  is  a 
handsome  spotted  animal,  weighing  sometimes  fifty 


30  Life  in  the  Open 

pounds ;  there  are  two  distinct  forms  here  recognised 
by  hunters.  I  have  seen  a  large  lynx,  a  tall,  long- 
legged,  scrawny  creature,  that  could  run  like  a  deer  and 
was  treed  with  difficulty.  It  had  tassels  to  its  ears,  and 
the  fur  on  its  cheeks  was  very  long  or  pronounced, 
while  another  has  more  the  appearance  of  a  large, 
overgrown  domestic  cat,  yet  with  tassels  and  beard. 

The  red  lynx,  Lynx  rufus,  is  found  across  the  con- 
tinent to  California  and  into  Texas.  It  has  short  red- 
dish hair,  while  the  spotted  lynx,  a  larger  form,  has  a 
striking  spotted  coat,  and  ranges  all  through  Southern 
California  and  down  into  Mexico.  This  lynx  is  a 
powerful  and  savage  animal.  I  have  seen  one  for  a  few 
moments  fight  off  a  pack  of  hounds,  lacerating  them 
badly ;  and  when  I  saw  one  coming  from  a  tree  in  my 
direction  I  always  gave  it  the  right  of  way.  They  are 
very  uncertain  game ;  no  rule  can  be  applied  to  them. 
Some  tree  repeatedly,  and  I  have  worked  nearly  half  a 
day  on  a  lynx  in  an  oak  grove,  the  animal  repeatedly 
ascending  trees  and  refusing  to  run.  Again  in  the  same 
Caflada  Valley  I  have  seen  a  large  lynx  leap  from  an  oak 
and  deliberately  take  to  the  open  in  a  long  run  of  mar- 
vellous speed. 

The  Valley  Hunt  Club  of  Pasadena  maintained  a  pack 
of  greyhounds  and  a  pack  of  foxhounds  for  many  years, 
the  latter  being  used  for  lynx-hunting  almost  exclusively, 
not  being  fast  enough  to  run  down  a  coyote  in  the  open 
country.  The  pack  was  a  gift  of  Dr.  F.  F.  Rowland,  who 
brought  them  to  California  from  the  Rose  Tree  Hunt  of 


Valley  Hunt  Foxhounds,  Pasadena. 


Hunting  the  Lynx  3I 

Pennsylvania.  I  hunted  the  hounds  about  twice  a  week 
with  a  friend,  and  as  they  did  not  have  sufficient  exer- 
cise our  experiences  became  a  part  of  the  history  and 
traditions  of  the  club,  often  at  our  expense.  We  in- 
variably ran  down  game.  If  it  were  not  a  coyote,  fox,  or 
wildcat,  it  would  be  a  Chinaman,  a  burro,  or  a  dog. 
These  hounds  would  have  something,  and  when  we 
started  out  or  entered  a  town,  every  living  thing  took 
to  the  woods.  One  day  we  were  moving  through  one 
of  the  canons  of  the  Puente  range,  about  seven  miles 
from  home,  when  we  came  upon  a  herd  of  sheep  on  the 
crest  of  a  hill.  The  hounds  had  drawn  a  blank,  and 
when  one  sighted  a  sheep  he  ran  it  down,  possibly 
mistaking  it  for  a  coyote ;  at  least  we  claimed  this 
for  the  hound.  But  before  we  could  reach  it  the 
pack  had  killed  the  sheep,  which  rolled  down  the  hill. 
Presently  the  herder,  a  piratical-looking  Basque,  ap- 
peared, headed  for  us,  and  we  prepared  for  trouble,  as  a 
matter  of  precaution  keeping  our  horses  above  him,  as 
he  came  stalking  along.  We  braced  ourselves  for  the 
explanation  and  were  ready  to  apologise  and  settle, 
when  the  man  came  up  and  taking  off  his  hat  said  in  a 
Basque  patois,  "Will  the  gentlemen  pardon  my  fool 
sheep?  They  run  and  excite  the  hound.  I  am  very 
sorry";  then  he  waited  and — well,  we  accepted  his 
apology  with  dignity,  and,  of  course,  insisted  upon 
paying  for  the  sheep. 

Another  day  the   pack  took  up  a  scent  and  with 
a  roar  of  sounds  swept  over  the  mesa  like  the  wind. 


32  Life  in  the  Open 

There  was  no  telling  what  the  game  was,  but  after  a  long 
run  we  went  through  the  main  street  of  a  little  village 
like  a  whirlwind.  An  incautious  Newfoundland  dog 
came  out  of  a  German's  yard,  followed  by  his  master, 
to  see  what  it  all  meant,  and  the  strenuous  Valley  Hunt 
hounds  fell  upon  him.  The  German  doubtless  thought 
he  had  been  attacked  by  wolves  as  he  fled,  and  the 
scene  of  action  was  changed  to  his  house  and  piazza. 
We  threw  ourselves  from  our  horses  and  rushed  into 
the  mdlee,  my  companion  to  save  the  German  and  I  to 
intervene  with  the  hounds  with  my  crop  on  the  part  of 
the  Newfoundland.  It  was  one  of  those  experiences 
which  drop  out  of  clear  skies  upon  peaceful  lovers  of 
nature — a  rude  blast  on  an  otherwise  peaceful  sea.  It 
took  fifteen  minutes  to  convince  those  hounds  that  the 
German  gentleman  was  not  some  kind  of  game,  and 
that  they  believed  the  big  dog  to  be  a  bear  there  could 
be  no  question. 

Having  succeeded  in  driving  the  pack  out  of  the 
little  garden,  now  a  wreck,  I  began  to  think  of  escape, 
but  it  was  an  evil  day.  Our  horses  had  run  away  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  face  the  irate  German,  who 
stated  that  he  had  a  brother-in-law  who  was  in  some 
way  related  to  the  Lieutenant-Governor  of  California, 
and  the  latter  was  to  be  summoned  at  once.  It  was 
fortunate  that  in  those  Arcadian  days  telephones  had  not 
disturbed  the  peace  of  suburban  communities,  or  we 
should  doubtless  have  been  held  and  hauled  before  this 
official.  As  it  was  we  faced  the  irate  citizen,  and  in  a 


Hunting  the  Lynx  33 

short  time  the  entire  village  gathered.  There  was  but 
one  thing  to  do.  We  were  in  the  enemy's  country,  the 
situation  required  quick  action  ;  we  decided  on  that 
foundation  of  all  American  diplomacy,  a  bluff.  Call- 
ing aside  the  German's  wife,  a  ponderous  but  amiable 
lady,  I  confided  to  her  that  her  husband, was  liable  to  get 
into  serious  trouble.  He  had  insulted  my  friend,  who 
held  a  very  high  office  in  the  neighbouring  city.  Her 
husband  had  allowed  his  big  Newfoundland  to  attack 

Herr 's  hounds  and  had  led  them  into  her  house  ; 

did  he  do  it  to  obtain  possession  of  the  hounds  or  what  ? 
I  stated  the  case  strongly,  dwelling  upon  the  grossness 
of  the  insult  to  my  friend  and  through  him  to  the  city 
he  lived  in,  ending  the  peroration  by  expressing  the 
hope  that  her  husband  would  not  have  any  serious 
trouble. 

The  lady  appeared  dumbfounded  at  this  phase  of  the 
question,  as  well  she  might,  and  I  saw  that  my  argu- 
ment had  produced  an  effect,  the  lady  was  anxious  to 
consult  her  excited  husband.  But  he  was  being  inter- 
viewed by  my  companion,  who  told  him  that  it  was 
unfortunate  that  he  had  seen  fit  to  attack  a  man  so 
prominent  as  his  friend,  Herr  School  Trustee,  a  high 
educational  official  under  the  municipal  government  of 
a  neighbouring  city,  and  he  wished  it  understood  that 
he  would  not  be  responsible  for  anything  that  should 
happen  to  a  man  who  used  decoy  dogs  to  attract  visit- 
ing hunts.  This  convincing  logic  came  in  the  nature 
of  a  shock  to  the  German,  and  he  no  longer  quoted  the 


34  Life  in  the  Open 

classics  or  referred  to  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  retiring 
with  his  wife  to  the  house  for  a  conference,  while  we, 
having  hired  a  boy  to  follow  the  horses,  stood  as  models 
of  outraged  dignity. 

American  diplomacy  succeeded.  The  worthy  couple 
soon  appeared  ;  the  husband  said  he  had  misunderstood 
the  situation,  and  begged  the  gentlemen  to  overlook  it. 
The  gentlemen  thus  appealed  to  took  it  under  advise- 
ment and  finally  concluded  to  accept  the  apology  on 
account  of  the  lady.  Thus  was  the  incident  closed. 
The  boys  brought  our  horses,  the  German  gentleman 
and  his  wife  bowed  low  over  the  wreck  of  their  holly- 
hocks, the  prominent  city  officials  gave  a  profound 
salute,  the  boys,  having  been  tipped,  raised  a  cheer,  and 
the  Valley  Hunt  rode  proudly  down  the  long  country 
road  in  the  direction  of  San  Gabriel. 

Below  the  mission  was  a  vast  vineyard,  and  beyond 
were  fields  of  nodding  grain  that  rippled  and  laughed 
in  the  sun  as  the  wind  caressed  its  surface.  Then 
there  were  great  open  stretches  covered  with  alfileria, 
and  along  the  sides  of  the  road  were  lines  of  wild  oats, 
the  yellow  violet,  and  little  blue  cup-like  flowers,  while 
in  the  fields  grew  masses  of  wild  daisies  of  a  score 
of  kinds,  the  plume-like  painter's  brush,  the  yellow 
mimulus,  and  over  them,  like  the  background  of  a 
Japanese  picture,  towered  a  mountain  of  snow,  a  sil- 
ver liberty  cap,  a  California  Fuji-yama  ten  thousand  feet 
in  air. 

Near  here  the  hounds  gave  tongue,  the  baying  in- 


£ 

•— 

o 

•5 

H 

£ 


Hunting  the  Lynx  35 

creased,  and  we  forgot  our  troubles  in  the  cheering, 
tremulous  music,  the  rolling,  deep-throated  sounds — 
O-Q-o-o-0-0 — that  have  a  direct  appeal  to  the  man  who 
is  susceptible  to  such  influences.  It  is  a  language,  this 
baying,  a  language  of  tones  and  inflections,  and  any 
lover  of  foxhounds  will  translate  it  for  you.  There  is  a 
cry  of  anticipation,  another  when  a  light  scent  is  picked 
up,  another  when  it  deepens,  still  another  when  the 
game  is  near,  and  when  it  is  sighted — and  who  can  mis- 
take that  splendid  booming  tone  that  tells  the  hunt  that 
the  game  is  treed  !  Then  when  a  lynx  makes  the  mad 
jump  and  the  hounds  miss  it  and  are  running,  how  easily 
understood  by  the  rider  far  away ! 

All  these  variants  in  the  language  of  the  hunt  were 
heard  by  us,  and  as  the  pace  grew  fiercer,  the  cries 
wilder,  we  closed  in  and  swung  into  a  field  and  at  full 
speed  ran  at  a  mammoth  pile  of  brush,  reined  up  amid 
a  cloud  of  dust,  and  swung  ourselves  from  the  saddle, 
to  confront — ministers  of  grace  defend  us! — a  huge  pig 
with  a  large  and  interesting  family.  She  did  not  even 
rise  ;  she  merely  grunted,  while  our  eyes  wandered  over 
the  astonished  pack  and  conjured  up  wild  schemes  of 
revenge. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  the  hounds  were  useless  ; 
quite  the  contrary,  they  were  not  exercised  sufficiently 
and  literally  went  wild  when  we  took  them  out.  No  bet- 
ter dogs  ever  took  the  trail  of  a  fox  or  wildcat,  but 
when  not  worked  they  insisted  upon  divers  diversions, 
and  they  had  them  at  our  expense.  It  was  uncertain 


36  Life  in  the  Open 

pastime.  One  day  we  had  invited  a  party  from  Los 
Angeles  to  meet  us  midway  between  the  two  cities. 
The  keeper  of  the  hounds  threw  open  the  corral,  which 
was  on  the  arroyo  road,  and  the  pack  took  a  trail  at 
that  spot  and,  in  full  cry,  started  for  the  arroyo.  The 
bank  here  was  one  hundred  feet  up  and  down.  I  be- 
lieve the  pack  went  over  it,  and  we  slid  down  a  small 
path  and  followed.  Once  I  heard  the  echo  of  a  bay 
several  miles  to  the  south  ;  later  in  the  day  I  heard  it 
somewhere  to  the  west,  and  two  days  later  a  letter  came 
from  a  rancher  up  the  San  Fernando  Valley,  twenty 
miles  away,  to  the  effect  that  the  Valley  Hunt  hounds 
had  just  passed  ;  did  we  want  them  ? 

The  days  with  these  hounds  in  the  deep  arroyo,  or 
in  the  open,  in  the  floral  winters,  despite  their  occasional 
vagaries,  are  among  the  pleasant  memories  of  the  earlier 
California  days,  and  there  are  still  Newfoundland  dogs, 
wildcats,  lynxs,  hounds,  and,  above  all,  winters  when  the 
palm  leaves  rustle  in  the  soft  wind,  and  petal  snowflakes 
drop  from  the  orange,  lemon,  and  lime. 


Chapter  III 

Deer-Hunting  in  the  Southern  Sierras 

WHEN  living  on  the  immediate  slope  of  the 
Sierra  Madre,  I  was  within  rifle-shot  of 
three  caftons  down  which  tumbled  the 
waters  from  the  upper  range.  Sometimes  the  water 
ran  under  leafy  arcades  where  the  fragrant  bay  quivered 
in  the  soft  wind,  then  out  into  the  open,  above  which 
the  dark  blue  of  the  larkspur  stood  out  in  relief  against 
the  green  of  nodding  brakes,  then  gliding  down  the 
face  of  some  green  slide  where  dainty  maidenhair  and 
other  ferns  trembled  in  the  rush  of  air.  Then  the  water 
would  gurgle  and  leap  through  polished  rocks,  dart  out 
into  the  open  again,  and  swing  merrily  along,  bearing 
freight  of  acorns,  pine  needles,  oak  leaves,  or  a  branch 
of  trailing  vetch  to  strand  them  on  a  mimic  bar  of 
shining  sands. 

These  sand-bars  were  found  everywhere  in  the 
arroyo.  I  established  relations  with  and  consulted  them 
as  to  the  coming  and  going  of  the  forest  animals,  and 
if  word  had  been  left  me,  the  message  could  not  have 

39 


40  Life  in  the  Open 

been  plainer.  Here  was  the  soft  footprint  of  a  wildcat, 
the  dainty  trail  of  a  snail ;  here  a  cottontail  had  crossed 
at  full  speed,  and,  deep  in  the  yielding  sand,  the  hoof- 
prints  of  the  black-tailed  deer.  He  had  cooled  his 
hoofs  in  the  stream,  then  started  back  to  drier  ground, 
where,  with  ears  alert,  he  stood  listening.  It  did  not 
require  a  mystic  to  translate  the  story  of  the  footprints 
in  the  sand  that  perhaps  were  effaced  by  the  night's 
rain,  or  by  the  rising  of  the  stream  —  a  dreamer  of 
dreams  could  read  it. 

Several  times,  in  wading  down  the  stream,  looking 
through  some  leafy  covert,  I  came  upon  a  deer,  and 
sometimes  in  the  fall,  along  the  unfrequented  slopes, 
one  would  be  seen  in  the  blue  haze  of  early  morning. 
During  the  hot  day  he  has  been  lying  on  the  summit 
of  the  range  in  some  little  clearing,  or  on  the  north  and 
cool  slopes  ;  but  in  the  cool  evening  or  morning  he  is 
abroad,  pushing  through  the  chaparral,  showering  him- 
self with  crystal  drops,  sniffing  at  the  perfumed  panicles 
of  the  wild  lilac,  and  nipping  the  green  tips  of  the 
Adenostoma. 

Down  he  comes,  crossing  the  divide,  looking  out 
into  the  valley  filled  with  silvery  fog,  through  which  the 
tops  of  hills  emerge  like  islands.  He  brushes  aside  the 
trumpets  of  the  mountain  mimulus,  starts  at  the  mur- 
mur of  the  deep-toned  pines,  stands  and  listens  until  the 
mimic  echo  of  the  sea  dies  away,  then  pushes  out  into 
the  stream  and  takes  the  trail  along  whose  sides  grow 
the  viands  of  his  choice.  He  nibbles  at  the  wild  honey- 


Deer-Hunting  in  Southern  Sierras      4I 

suckle  as  it  falls  over  the  scrub  oak,  stops  at  the  tall 
arrow  grasses,  thrusts  aside  the  wild  sunflowers,  and  leaps 
from  the  rocky  pass  into  the  open  where  the  arroyo 
ends.  He  may  wander  down  the  stream,  or  perhaps 
climb  up  the  sides  and  stroll  out  on  to  the  west  mesa, 
hiding  in  the  little  washes  where  the  wild  rose  fills  the 
air  with  perfume,  feeding  here  and  there  as  his  fancy 
dictates. 

At  such  times  I  have  seen  him,  when  the  eastern 
sky  was  ablush  with  vivid  tints,  the  snow-caps  of  San  An- 
tonio suffused  with  the  golden  light  of  the  coming  day. 
You  look  twice  and  again,  so  well  does  he  match  the 
chaparral,  so  harmonious  the  tint ;  indeed  no  one  would 
suspect  that  this  placid-faced,  large-eyed  creature  stand- 
ing like  a  statue,  big  in  the  haze,  was  a  grape-eater,  that 
he  had  pillaged  the  ranch  below  Las  Cacitas  the  night 
before,  and  the  one  before  that  had  played  havoc  in  a 
Cafiada  ranch.  But  it  is  the  same,  and  you  have  laid  in 
the  chaparral  waiting  for  him  night  after  night,  and  now 
he  is  gone,  and  off  somewhere  with  lowered  head  he 
creeps  through  the  bush  and  makes  good  his  escape. 

All  the  ranges  of  the  southern  Sierras  abound  in  the 
black-tailed  deer ;  an  attractive  creature,  at  the  present 
time  difficult  to  shoot  if  fair  play  is  given.  Indeed, 
I  can  conceive  no  more  difficult  sport  than  to  hunt  the 
deer  in  the  Sierra  Madre  without  dogs.  The  extraordi- 
nary character  of  the  mountains,  the  steepness  and 
depth  of  the  cafions  soon  tire  out  the  hunter.  I  had 
hunted  deer  in  the  Adirondacks,  in  Virginia  and  Florida, 


42  Life  in  the  Open 

following  them  over  the  country,  and  my  first  effort  along 
this  line  in  Southern  California  demonstrated  that  for 
me  at  least,  where  deer  were  not  very  common,  the 
sport  merged  into  work  of  the  most  arduous  nature,  and 
after  that  I  hunted  deer  with  hounds,  skirting  the 
slopes  of  mountains,  using  the  dogs  to  start  them  in  the 
lower  cafions  but  not  to  run  them  down. 

A  single  hunt  may  illustrate  the  arduous  nature  of 
the  sport  if  followed  with  enthusiasm.  By  sunrise  we 
were  riding  down  the  Caftada  between  the  Sierra  Madre 
and  the  San  Rafael  Hills,  the  road  lying  between  the 
ridges  in  the  centre  of  a  wide  valley.  It  was  Septem- 
ber, the  last  of  the  long  summer.  The  alfileria  that  swept 
along  the  valley  in  the  early  spring,  clothing  it  with 
green,  was  dead,  and  the  open  country  bore  a  brown 
and  burnt-umber  shade.  The  vineyards,  orange  and 
lemon  trees  were  green,  but  the  tall  mustard  stalks  that 
had  been  laden  with  gold,  the  clovers  and  others  were 
dead,  and  their  tones  and  shades  combined  with  the 
barren  spots  in  rich  neutral  tints.  The  sun  was  just 
rising,  the  ranges  were  clothed  in  purple  hues,  and  far 
to  the  east  a  scarlet  alpine  glow  appeared  growing  and 
spreading  over  the  world.  The  deep  shadows  crept  out 
of  the  cafions,  the  divides  became  more  pronounced,  the 
distant  ranges  assumed  deeper  blues,  and  finally  the  big 
trees  that  fringed  the  summits  were  silhouetted  against 
the  blue  sky  as  the  sun  climbed  up  out  of  the  desert 
and  looked  down  on  California. 

We  drove  through  a  long  line  of  ranches  for  five 


Deer-Hunting  in  Southern  Sierras      43 

miles,  turned  to  the  south  into  a  narrow  green  cafion, 
then  wheeled  sharply  to  the  right,  and  up  among  the 
cactus  and  chaparral  of  a  little  valley  pulled  up  beneath 
the  live  oaks.  The  hounds  jumped  out,  my  guide  un- 
harnessed, fastening  one  horse  to  the  tree  and  saddling 
the  other  for  my  benefit,  and  we  started  up  the  canon. 

I  thought  of  my  last  deer  hunt  not  a  mile  from  Ned 
Buntline's  old  home  in  the  open  at  the  foot  of  Blue 
Mountain  in  the  Adirondacks,  where  I  stole  through  the 
forest  over  a  bed  of  leaves,  resting  on  fern-covered 
trunks  coated  with  moss,  every  leaf,  twig,  and  branch 
scintillating  with  moisture.  Here  the  only  dampness 
for  six  months  had  been  the  fog  and  dew ;  not  a  drop 
of  rain  had  fallen,  yet  the  chaparral  that  robed  the 
mountain  was  rich  in  greens,  a  mantle  undulating  and 
beautiful,  at  a  distance,  but,  to  hunt  deer  in,  an  impene- 
trable maze. 

This  chaparral  was  composed  of  Adenostoma,  a 
thick,  sweet-scented  bush  from  four  to  six  feet  high, 
spreading  and  stiff,  so  that  when  it  bent  back  and  struck 
one  on  the  return,  it  was  a  flagellation.  With  it  were 
masses  of  Heteromales  covered  with  white  flowers, 
sumac,  wild  lilac,  scrub  oak,  and  others,  with  here  and 
there  in  the  clear  places  a  Spanish  bayonet  or  yucca 
with  a  thousand  daggers  en  guard.  Imagine  acres  of 
this,  bound  together  in  a  more  or  less  compact  tangle, 
with  patches  of  dead  wood,  remains  of  ancient  fires, 
which  were  stiffer  and  more  offensive  than  the  rest. 

My  guide  said  there  was  a  trail,  and  leading  the  way 


44  Life  in  the  Open 

I  followed  the  path,  so  called  by  courtesy.  There  had 
been  one,  but  the  chaparral  had  closed  in  upon  it  like 
the  waves  of  a  sea,  and  in  ten  minutes  my  faithful 
and  well-trained  horse  was  butting  through  and  I  was 
swept  off  and  carried  away.  I  then  took  the  animal  by 
the  tail  and  fell  into  his  wake,  and  so  we  literally  butted 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain  several  hundred  feet  until 
the  semblance  of  a  trail  became  more  evident,  when  I 
again  mounted.  We  were  on  the  side  of  a  deep  and  well 
wooded  cafion,  a  vast  basin  of  green  without  a  break, 
reaching  up  to  the  summit  nearly  four  thousand  feet. 
Already  I  could  see  over  the  hills  and  look  down  into  the 
San  Gabriel  Valley,  while  the  back  and  distant  peaks  of 
the  Sierras  began  to  unfold  and  range  into  line. 

My  guide  now  took  the  hounds  down  the  slopes  and 
began  to  work  up  the  cafion,  while  I  kept  along  the  trail, 
that  was  a  mere  depression  in  the  chaparral.  Out  of  the 
gulf  of  green  now  came  the  splendid  baying  of  a  hound, 
a  bay  of  inquiry,  answered  presently  by  another  not  far 
distant,  taken  up  by  still  another,  and  far  below  me  I 
could  see  the  low  chaparral  waving  as  they  worked 
along.  I  gradually  moved  upward  ;  now  skirting  the 
cafion  and  where  occasion  offered  making  a  zigzag 
climb ;  now  going  ahead  to  break  down  the  lilac  brush 
or  to  push  the  greasewood  aside  for  my  patient  horse, 
then  climbing  into  the  big  Mexican  saddle  to  sit,  rifle 
over  the  pommel,  and  watch  in  silence  for  a  deer. 

Again  came  the  flute-like  baying,  growing  in  intensity 
until  there  was  a  continuous  volley  of  sounds  which  re- 


Deer-Hunting  in  Southern  Sierras      45 

verberated  from  side  to  side  of  the  cafion,  arousing  all  its 
dormant  echoes.  The  hounds  had  passed  me,  so  I 
plunged  into  the  chaparral,  reaching  an  open  place  near 
the  summit  as  they  came  up  the  slope.  There  they 
missed  the  scent  and  swept  down  again,  and  I  worked 
my  way  upward  to  a  spur  near  the  peak  where  I  seemed 
to  be  above  the  very  world.  Away  to  the  south  was  the 
Pacific  like  a  mass  of  cloud.  I  could  see  the  long  line 
of  surf,  the  islands  twenty  miles  out  to  sea,  fifty  miles 
distant,  like  some  huge  monsters.  Occasionally  I  heard 
the  baying,  and  dismounting  lay  in  the  bush  and  looked 
down  into  the  matchless  abyss  watching  for  the  game. 
An  hour  later  I  saw  it  across  the  canon,  about  the  size 
of  a  large  dog,  too  far  away  it  seemed.  But  I  fired  and 
repeated  the  shot  several  times,  emptying  the  magazine, 
as  a  flash  of  dun  dashed  along  the  side  of  the  cafton ; 
then  my  guide  appeared  on  a  lower  grade,  plunging 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  breaking  through  the 
chaparral,  and  later  I  saw  him  climbing  up  the  opposite 
side,  from  which  he  brought  the  deer. 

It  was  high  noon  and  the  summer  sun  beat  fiercely 
down,  while  we  ate  jerked  venison,  and  waited  for  the 
afternoon  ;  then  we  changed  to  another  peak,  seeing 
deer  but  getting  none,  though  on  a  steep  slope  I  came 
upon  a  fine  buck  that  doubtless  had  been  shot  and  lost 
some  days  previous.  If  there  had  been  no  game,  there 
would  have  been  the  view.  The  San  Fernando  Valley 
was  at  my  feet  with  its  shimmering  sands,  its  scattering 
masses  of  chaparral,  and  winding  through  it  the  white, 


46  Life  in  the  Open 

silvery  bed  of  the  Los  Angeles  River,  while  beyond  rose 
the  Sierra  Santa  Monica  range  reaching  away,  literally 
plunging  into  the  distant  Pacific.  One  must  climb  to 
such  a  height  to  appreciate  the  mountains  of  Southern 
California  and  obtain  an  intimate  glance  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  good  principle  and  safe  in  such  hunting  to 
keep  to  the  trails.  Led  by  exuberant  fancy  and  a  desire 
to  see  other  parts  of  the  mountains  I  rode  down  a  long 
limb  of  the  mountain  over  a  coyote  trail,  in  a  short  time 
finding  myself  involved  in  the  chaparral.  If  I  could 
have  gone  down  on  my  knees  and  crawled  I  might  have 
made  some  progress,  but  the  breaking  through  was 
deadly.  I  came  out  into  an  area  that  had  been  burned 
over,  and  as  my  horse  pushed  aside  the  branches  they 
sprang  back  like  steel  springs.  For  a  time  I  was  seri- 
ously involved  and  came  out,  as  General  Gordon  has  ex- 
pressed it,  "worn  to  a  frazzle,"  having  learned  the 
lesson  to  keep  to  the  trails  and  not  attempt  in  summer 
to  ride  a  horse  through  the  chaparral  on  the  south  side 
of  a  Southern  California  mountain  that  has  been  burned 
over. 

There  are  mountains  back  of  Santa  Barbara  and  in 
San  Diego  and  other  counties  where  deer-hunting  is  not 
so  difficult,  where  the  game  is  more  plentiful  and  can 
be  followed  in  the  Eastern  fashion.  Again,  in  some  of 
the  less  frequented  regions  it  can  be  found  in  the  low- 
lands along  the  base  of  the  mountains,  especially  over 
the  line  in  Lower  California  ;  but  some  of  the  finest  sport 
can  be  had  in  season  on  the  great  slopes  of  San  Jacinto, 


-t  t 


Deer-Hunting  in  the  Southern  Sierras    47 

San  Gorgonio,  San  Bernardino,  and  others.  At  Bear 
Valley  there  are  long  stretches  of  park-land  and  forest 
five  or  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  where  the 
country  is  more  or  less  open  and  level,  presenting  an 
inviting  prospect  to  the  deer  hunter. 

No  Eastern  sportsman  should  go  on  a  deer  hunt  on 
the  south  side  of  a  California  range  in  summer  without  a 
competent  guide  and  a  thorough  understanding  of  the 
country  and  the  conditions.  I  have  known  men  who  had 
hunted  deer  in  the  East  for  years  to  come  to  grief  not 
ten  miles  from  Los  Angeles.  They  became  involved  in 
the  hot,  stifling  chaparral,  and  were  rescued  on  the  slopes 
of  steep  canons  with  difficulty.  In  all  the  towns  which 
stand  on  the  foothills  skilled  deer  hunters  can  be  found, 
and  if  sport  is  to  be  had  they  should  be  employed. 
Again,  the  Sierra  Madre  are  dangerous  to  inexperienced 
men.  They  appear  smiling  and  beautiful  in  the  canons, 
but  they  abound  in  steep  precipices  and  are  often  cov. 
ered  with  a  mass  of  brush  or  chaparral  that  is  most  diffi- 
cult to  penetrate,  wearing  and  deadly  to  the  man  who 
is  lost  and  confused.  The  entire  range  abounds  in  large 
safe  canons  and  trails,  but  the  inexperienced  sports- 
man, the  "  tenderfoot  "  who  attempts  to  cross  the  range 
as  he  might  the  Adirondacks,  or  any  Eastern  range,  by 
going  directly  ahead,  up  and  down,  will  soon  come  to 
grief.  The  moral,  then,  is  to  go  well  equipped,  with 
some  one  familiar  with  the  mountains,  and  if  this  is  not 
possible,  keep  to  the  big  canon  trails. 


I 


Chapter  IV 

Water  Fowl 

THE  coast  of  Southern  California  is,  in  the  main, 
a  long  stretch  of  sand  dunes  changing  every 
hour  and  moment  in  the  wind  that  heaps  them 
up  into  strange  and  fascinating  shapes.  In  many  in- 
stances they  form  breakwaters,  damming  up  the  waters 
that  flow  down  the  canons'  stream-beds  from  the  interior. 
Thus  all  the  country  to  the  south  of  the  Palos  Verde, 
near  San  Pedro,  and  extending  to  Long  Beach,  is  a 
shallow  back  bay,  a  series  of  lagunas  or  canals,  often 
running  back  into  the  country  to  form  some  little  pond 
or  lake. 

At  Alamitos,  where  the  San  Gabriel  River  reaches  the 
sea,  and  at  Balsa  Chica,  one  of  the  finest  preserves  and 
clubs  in  the  country,  and  other  places  along  shore  to 
San  Diego  we  shall  find  these  lagunas,  or  sea  swamps, 
the  home  of  the  duck,  goose,  and  swan.  The  season 
begins  in  November,  and  if  there  has  been  an  early  rain 
the  country  is  green  and  beautiful.  The  long  summer 
is  a  vanishing  memory ;  the  air  is  clear,  and  the  distant 

51 


52  Life  in  the  Open 

mountains  stand  out  with  marvellous  distinctness  ;  the 
days  are  shorter,  there  is  a  crispness  to  the  air,  and  the 
mountains— what  tints  of  blue,  what  ineffable  shades, 
suggestions,  and  tones  of  this  splendid  colour!  The 
main  range  is  of  turquoise,  of  old  India  mines ;  the  sec- 
ond, lapis  lazuli ;  the  third  is  the  tone  I  have  seen  in 
labradorite  ;  then  the  spur  farther  still  is  azure  ;  but  here 
your  blues  give  out  and  fail,  as  have  the  greens  long 
ago.  Suddenly  one  day  there  comes  from  somewhere 
over  your  head  or  high  in  air  wild  and  vociferous 
sounds,  and  leaping  out  into  the  open  every  vagrant 
fog  fleck  seems  to  have  given  tongue,  and  a  great,  white 
aerial  maelstrom  is  forming  before  your  eyes.  Around 
it  whirls,  rising  upward ;  now  dazzling  the  eye  with 
glittering  silver,  as  though  some  prodigal  hand  had 
tossed  newly  minted  dollars  into  the  air,  then  disap- 
pearing to  come  again ;  flashing,  scintillating  against 
the  blue  of  the  heavens.  Up  it  rises ;  then  a  single 
goose,  almost  reaching  the  empyrean,  turns,  followed  by 
the  flock,  which  lengthens  out  into  a  long  angle  and 
sails,  slides  down-hill  along  the  face  of  the  Sierras — a 
token  by  which  you  know  that  ducks,  geese,  and  cranes 
are  going  south  and  that  winter  and  the  shooting  season 
has  arrived.  No  more  beautiful  sight  than  this  can  be 
seen  in  Southern  California  when  these  vast  flocks  pass 
up  and  down,  silhouetted  against  the  chaparral  of  the 
mountain  slopes. 

If  you  live  in  the  mountains  this  call  comes  every  few 
hours.     Near  my  camp,  on  a  spur  of   the  Sierras,  in 


Water  Fowl  53 

October  I  could  hear  geese  and  cranes  many  times  a 
day ;  sometimes  so  near  that  they  were  killed  by  rifle- 
shots ;  again  half  a  mile  in  air,  coming  down  the  aerial 
toboggan  slide  of  Southern  California,  their  habit  being 
when  they  reach  a  point  too  low  for  safety  to  stop  and, 
with  vociferous  cries,  whirl  about,  climbing  the  air  as 
described,  and  then,  on  reaching  a  high  altitude,  soar- 
ing, not  flying,  away  to  the  south  along  the  mountains, 
in  this  way  covering  four  or  five,  possibly  ten  miles, 
when  another  break  occurs  and  they  climb  again. 

In  this  way  the  geese  and  cranes  migrate  to  Southern 
California.  At  this  time  the  oranges  are  turning  to 
gold  ;  the  land  that  was  brown  and  grey  is  green  ;  the 
Heteromeles  flashes  scarlet  on  the  slopes  of  the  canon 
down  which  you  pass,  and  the  lowlands,  where  the  wild 
rose  garlands  some  little  runaway  through  the  hills, 
are  rich  in  sweet  odours.  Then,  from  high  in  the  air, 
comes  the  honk,  honk,  honk  of  the  wild  goose,  and  you 
are  away  to  some  little  laguna  you  know  well,  far  down 
by  the  sea. 

There  I  found  myself  one  morning  before  daylight 
sitting  in  the  barrel  blind  on  the  edge  of  the  laguna, 
with  decoys  all  about,  and  the  air  filled  with  the  gutter- 
als  of  swamp  birds  and  the  cries  of  myriads  of  black- 
birds. The  high  fog  was  going  out  to  sea,  and  away  to 
the  north  was  seen  the  long  line  of  the  Sierras,  the  tall 
peaks,  as  San  Antonio,  standing  out  like  sentinels,  while 
to  the  west  rose  a  wall  of  green  weed,  its  tall  spikes  re- 
flected in  the  water  in  lines  of  vivid  colour,  bending  here 


54  Life  in  the  Open 

and  there  under  scores  of  blackbirds.     It  may  be  my 
imagination,   but  if  there  is  not  organisation  of  some 
kind   among   these   birds,  the  imitation  is  perfect.      I 
had  my  decoys  well  placed,  and  was  out  of  sight  before 
a  bird  left  the  weeds  where  they  spent  the  night,  but 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  sun  started  them,  and  a  roar  of 
sounds  filled  the  vibrant  air.     They  thronged  the  bend- 
ing reeds  and,  suddenly  silenced,  a  flock  of  four  or  five 
hundred  rose,  as  though  by  concert,  and   flew  away ; 
then  bedlam  broke  loose  again — -ping  zeee  ee  ping  zeeee, 
and  countless  sounds, — followed  by  silence,  when  a  new 
army  would  rise.     For  an  hour  I  watched  these  delega- 
tions leaving,  each  going  in  some  different   direction^ 
thus  dividing  up  the  great  blackbird  army  ;  some  flying 
to  one  ranch,  some  to  another.     This  lot  perhaps  se- 
lected Balsa  Chica,  the  next  the  San  Joaquin,  another 
the  Aliso,  and  so  on  until  quiet  settled  down  over  the 
laguna,   and   the    coots    and   rails    had    the    field    to 
themselves. 

If  one  does  not  bag  his  ducks  or  geese  there  are  the 
charms  of  the  swamp,  the  variety  of  animal  life,  the 
strange  sounds  to  listen  to— all  compensations.  But 
what  is  this,  far  to  the  south  where  the  laguna  reaches 
away  to  the  sand  dunes  and  sea  ?  Several  black  spots 
appear,  standing  out  with  vivid  distinctness.  On  they 
come,  now  resolving  into  birds— ducks  coming  in  from 
the  sea  perhaps,  to  feed  on  wild  celery,  grain,  alfileria, 
and  the  choice  grasses  that  carpet  the  soft  adobe  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  water.  They  are  coming  directly 


•a 

n 


Water  Fowl  55 

in.  I  can  almost  hear  the  hiss  of  their  wings ;  then 
they  turn  and  I  watch  their  graceful  movement  and 
am  wondering  what  deflected  them,  when  around  they 
whirl ;  they  see  the  decoys,  turn,  and  literally  drop  out 
of  the  sky  in  that  splendid  curve  that  I  break,  and  take 
what  fortune  and  the  morning  wind  has  brought ;  one 
to  the  right,  dropping  it  directly  into  the  decoys,  while 
the  flock,  pounding  the  air,  turns  violently.  I  fire  my 
left  directly  over  my  head  and  see  the  duck  coming 
down  on  me. 

Probably  every  old  duck  hunter  has  had  this  experi- 
ence, but  it  has  occurred  to  me  but  once.  I  dodged, 
and  the  heavy  "  sprig "  came  tumbling  down,  like  a 
meteorite  dropping  out  of  the  sky,  struck  the  edge 
of  the  barrel,  and  rolled  in  at  my  feet.  The  flock  has 
swung  around,  passing  over  another  blind  on  its  way  to 
the  sea  again,  and  so  is  depleted  as  the  white  puffs 
of  smoke  rise  over  the  green. 

The  sprig  is  the  early  bird  in  Southern  California, 
the  first  to  come ;  a  fine  big  fellow,  robed  in  black, 
brown,  and  white,  with  scintillations  of  violet,  gold,  and 
green.  In  the  old  days,  or  twenty  years  ago,  before 
California  was  invested,  I  have  seen  the  waters  of  the 
lagoons  covered  with  them,  while  the  adjacent  lands 
and  mounds  would  be  white  with  cranes  and  geese. 
In  those  days  the  lagoons  were  no  man's  land ;  duck 
clubs  were  unknown,  and  there  was  good  shooting  in  a 
little  lake  south  of  Raymond  Hill,  Pasadena,  in  the  foot- 
hills after  a  rain,  not  to  speak  of  the  reservoirs.  Then 


56  Life  in  the  Open 

the  irrigation  ditches  were  alive  with  game,  and  it  was  a 
question  on  some  ranches  in  the  San  Joaquin  how  to 
drive  the  geese  off,  so  regardless  were  they  of  the 
rights  of  man. 

This  has  all  changed  :  almost  every  foot  of  good 
duck  shooting  in  Los  Angeles  County,  and  from  Santa 
Monica  to  Laguna,  is  taken  by  private  clubs  ;  were  this 
not  so,  every  duck  and  goose  on  the  coast  would  be  killed 
off  by  the  pot-hunter,  the  running  mate  of  the  man  who 
dynamites  trout  streams.  As  it  is,  the  birds  are  pro- 
tected, and  it  is  not  difficult  for  gentlemen  to  obtain 
access  to  the  shooting  privileges  of  some  of  the  clubs 
along  shore.  Sport  is  not  alone  the  object ;  the  birds 
are  conserved,  protected,  and  fed,  and  intelligent  laws 
devised  for  the  conduct  of  the  sport. 

While  we  are  digressing,  white  spots  are  coming 
up  the  channel  of  the  slough,  and  you  see  the  king  of 
all  ducks — the  canvas-back.  The  first  one  I  ever  shot 
from  a  blind  in  the  Chesapeake  Bay  gave  me  the  duck 
fever ;  it  was  not  the  bird,  but  the  fact  that  a  flock  of 
canvas-backs  and  others  covering  acres,  so  it  seemed, 
came  swimming  around  a  turn,  out  into  the  bay,  so 
that  when  I  sprang  to  my  feet  that  I  might  not  commit 
murder  on  the  high  seas,  the  air  was  filled  with  climb- 
ing forms. 

On  they  come  straight  for  the  decoys,  and  as  the 
white  puff  drifts  away,  I  see  the  canvas-back  lying 
among  them,  while  the  rest  of  the  flock  are  whirling 
away  seaward. 


Water  Fowl  57 

The  sportsman  will  find  nearly  all  the  ducks  of  the 
East  along  shore  in  Southern  California :  the  mallard, 
gadwall,  baldpate,  green-winged  teal,  blue-winged  teal, 
cinnamon  teal,  spoonbill,  sprig,  wood  duck,  red-head, 
canvas-back,  wing  widgeon,  burfle-head,  American 
scooter,  white-winged  scooter,  surf-scooter,  and  ruddy 
duck,  some  of  which,  as  we  might  say  of  crow,  are 
more  pleasing  to  the  eye  than  the  stomach.  Of  geese 
there  are  the  lesser  snow  goose,  greater  snow  goose, 
American  white-fronted  goose,  Canada  goose,  Hutch- 
in's  goose,  black  brant,  and  trumpeter  swan. 

There  is  a  constant  coming  in,  on  this  splendid 
shooting  ground.  Here  is  the  cinnamon  teal  with  beau- 
tiful colouring ;  its  gray  wings  striking  the  air  like 
whips,  its  bars  of  celestial  blue,  its  velvet  beak  blazing 
like  a  jewel, — the  humming-bird  of  the  duck  tribe.  It 
is  one  of  the  commonest  of  Southern  California  ducks, 
found  along  shore  all  summer,  spring,  and  fall,  going 
farther  south  in  midwinter.  In  May,  its  nest  and 
eggs  may  be  found  in  many  of  the  protected  lagoons. 
How  far  this  fine  bird  goes  to  the  south  is  not  known, 
but  it  is  seen  in  Central  America  in  February,  and  is 
one  of  the  most  attractive  of  its  kind.  To  see  it  pad- 
dling in  some  snug  harbour,  shut  in  by  tules,  its  tints 
blazing  in  the  sunlight,  is  a  picture  too  beautiful  to 
always  interrupt  when  there  is  other  game  to  be  had. 

The  mallard  is  a  favourite  duck  of  the  people,  and 
one  of  the  cleverest.  It  comes  up  the  little  channel,  ap- 
proaches the  decoy,  then  has  a  presentiment  (surely  it 


5g  Life  in  the  Open 

sees  nothing),  and  then  literally  shoots  up  through  the  air 
in  a  climb  into  the  empyrean.  I  shall  never  forget  my 
first  experience  with  this  manoeuvre.  I  sat  and  looked 
in  sheer  wonderment,  and  when  my  old  darkey  com- 
panion, who  lived  in  Hampton,  on  the  creek,  asked  me 
why  I  didn't  fire,— why,  I  gave  it  up.  In  the  old  days 
these  birds  could  be  seen  in  large  numbers  in  all  the 
lagoons  along  shore,  becoming  rarer  and  wilder  as  the 
country  became  settled,  and  towns  and  fantastic  cities 
rose  in  a  night  in  the  lagunas  and  swamps  that  once 
knew  them  well. 

The  commonest  bag  along  shore  is  the  green- 
winged  teal.  No  one  can  watch  its  flight,  its  dash  and 
swiftness,  without  becoming  enamoured  with  it  as  a 
game  bird.  I  have  seen  a  flock  whizzing  along,  have 
fired  and  missed,  recovering  from  my  surprise  only  to  be 
thrown  into  deeper  chagrin  and  confusion  as  the  same 
flock  that  had  dodged  my  ammunition  came  whirling 
back  at  me,  so  near  that  I  threw  up  my  hands,  figura- 
tively, and  let  them  go.  I  was  not  out  for  murder  or 
sudden  death  without  an  excuse  or  justification. 

The  mornings  out  on  the  edge  of  the  lagoon  are 
often  cool,  but  soon  the  fog  creeps  away,  the  sun  comes 
out,  and  all  the  life  of  the  tule  appears.  Coots  make  the 
acquaintance  of  your  distant  decoys.  Wilson's  snipe 
come  whirring  in  and  alight  near  you  in  the  mud,  and 
the  solitary  sandpiper  flies  down  from  the  pasture  lands 
where  it  has  been  feeding  to  leave  its  footprints  in  the 
soft  mud. 


Water  Fowl  59 

If  you  are  in  good  luck,  while  waiting  you  may  see 
the  least  sandpiper,  the  avocet,  and  that  living  colour- 
scheme  the  gallinule  creeping  in  and  out  among  the  tall 
reeds.  In  Florida  I  have  often  kept  this  bird  as  a  pet, 
it  being  very  amenable  to  domestication.  Few  birds 
have  a  more  beautiful  or  more  expressive  eye  than  this 
gentle  creature. 

If  the  sportsman  finds  some  section  of  the  country 
not  a  preserve  and  unfrequented,  he  will  see  many  old 
friends  of  the  East.  A  few  years  ago  I  could  count 
scores  of  herons  in  the  country  back  of  Playa  del  Rey, 
splashes  of  white  against  the  green  ;  and  once  I  hunted 
a  flock  of  the  snowy  herons  for  hours  in  this  lagoon.  I 
crept  over  the  dunes,  edging  my  way  along,  and  watched 
them  feeding  around  a  little  island  in  the  swamp,  with 
sentinels  posted.  But  the  finest  bird  is  the  sand-hill 
crane  that  may  be  seen  in  the  Centinela  hills,  and  I 
have  seen  it  in  the  Puente  hills  south  of  Pasadena. 
This  is  the  bird  that  makes  the  best  displays  spring 
and  fall  along  the  Sierra  Madre.  Wandering  along 
the  low  region  that  receives  the  seepage  of  the  hills 
you  may  see  the  spotted  sandpiper,  the  black-bellied 
plover,  and  in  the  wet  meadows,  where  the  lush  alfalfa 
stands,  hear  the  flute-like  cry  of  the  killdeer  with  its 
ventriloquistic  quality  coming  down  the  wind.  The 
mountain  and  snowy  plover  are  not  strangers ;  and  on 
the  highlands  or  mesas,  a  few  miles  from  the  sea,  the 
long-billed  curlew  is  not  uncommon.  I  located  a  large 
flock  of  these  birds  on  the  mesa  a  mile  back  from  the 


6o  Life  in  the  Open 

sea  and  north  of  Santa  Monica  some  years  ago,  and 
watched  them  for  weeks.  By  keeping  behind  my  horse 
and  working  him  on  the  flock  in  a  circle,  I  approached 
so  near  that  I  could  see  their  every  move.  They  were 
feeding  on  grasshoppers. 

While  the  geese  are  not  so  common  as  in  the  old 
times,  the  grain  fields  of  Centinela  and  others  in  ex- 
posed positions  are  still  raided  at  night  by  the  lesser 
snow  goose.  You  may  walk  along  the  shore  in  the 
afternoon  and  see  the  white  platoons  far  out  on  the 
water,  surrounded  by  ducks  ;  and  if  you  have  patience, 
and  the  moon  is  bright,  may  see  them  coming  in  to  de- 
vastate your  alfalfa  patch,  or  to  spend  the  night  in  a 
revelry  in  your  barley  fields.  Then  there  is  the  white- 
fronted  goose.  I  found  a  little  laguna  made  by  the 
rains  near  the  Mission  hills  some  years  ago,  frequented 
by  the  Canada  goose.  The  country  near  by  was  open 
and  planted  to  barley,  and  when  the  birds  had  surfeited 
themselves,  they  would  rise  and  come  wheeling  along, 
dropping  down  near  the  blind  where  I  lay  concealed.  I 
found  at  first  they  paid  little  attention  to  my  horse, 
which  I  left  under  a  tree,  and  I  tried  to  work  up  to  them 
mounted,  but  they  saw  the  trick  at  once. 

I  reached  the  lake  one  winter  morning  when  the  fog 
was  thick  and  heavy.  The  hills  were  green  as  emeralds, 
and  the  drenching  rains  had  brought  out  the  alfileria 
and  burr  clover  with  a  host  of  flowers  that  grew  down  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  little  laguna.  I  rode  up  to  a  low 
hill  and  looked  over  from  the  saddle  ;  the  soft  verdure 


.,! 


bi>  ~ 


O  2 


5-^ 

w  ^  c 

G    -*j  c3 
<    gW 

•d 

'w 

o 


Water  Fowl  61 

that  was  ordinarily  a  floral  coat  of  many  colours  was 
white  with  these  fine  birds.  I  crept  around  to  a  little 
canon  or  wash,  and,  giving  my  clever  horse  the  word,  he 
charged  them  at  a  pace  that  brought  me  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  flock.  If  the  little  lake  had  been  blown  up 
the  effect  could  not  have  been  more  electrical,  as  the 
geese  seemed  to  rise  directly  into  the  air  with  splendid 
reaches,  while  others,  as  though  demoralised,  swept 
around  me  like  an  aureola  as  I  sat  in  the  saddle  finger- 
ing the  trigger  and  resisting  the  temptation  that  every 
pot-hunter  embraces.  Then  I  took  my  horse  some  dis- 
tance off  and  hid  in  a  brush  heap  from  which  I  watched 
others  come  in  graceful  alignment — a  splendid  specta- 
cle. Suddenly  seeing  the  little  silver-faced  lagoon, 
perhaps  a  thousand  feet  below  them,  nestled  in  the 
green,  they  went  to  pieces  literally,  and  tumbling  down 
out  of  the  heavens,  to  alight  with  grace  and  dignity 
indescribable. 

Here,  too,  is  Hutchin's  goose,  a  clever  bird.  All 
these  birds  present  an  interesting  spectacle  in  their 
great  migrations  along  the  Sierras,  where  they  are  often 
picked  off  with  the  rifle,  which,  to  my  mind,  not  being 
in  the  goose  business,  is  one  of  the  really  sportsmanlike 
and  legitimate  methods  for  its  taking  off.  Game  itself 
is  but  one  feature  of  this  sport ;  the  perfect  days,  the 
grand  vistas  of  mountains  and  mesa,  the  hills,  the  sand 
dunes,  and  the  roar  of  the  distant  sea  as  it  piles  on  the 
sand  beyond  the  lagoon,  all  tend  to  add  to  the  charm  of 
life  along  the  winding  lagoons  of  Southern  California. 


#«•?*£ 


Chapter  V 

Fox-Hunting  in  California 

WHEN  the  scarlet  berries  of  the  Heteromeles 
begin  to  fill  and  glisten  in  the  sun,  when 
the  long-pointed  aromatic  leaves  of  the 
eucalyptus  hang  listless  in  the  drowsy  air,  you  may  know 
that  summer  in  Southern  California  is  on  the  wane.  Up 
to  August,  in  the  valleys  the  days  have  been  clear  and 
warm  ;  in  the  afternoon  a  constant  breeze  blowing  from 
the  sea  ;  the  nights  refreshing  and  cool.  There  has 
been  no  summer  humidity,  no  enervating  days  that  hold 
'on  the  Eastern  coast.  Nearly  all  June  and  July  a  night 
fog  has  bathed  the  verdure  and  left  glistening  drops  in 
the  morning  sun,  and  imparted  to  the  air  a  resonance 
and  tang  that  is  delightful. 

The  greens  of  winter  have  melted  into  brown  ;  the 
lower  hills  are  rich  in  tones  of  russet  and  umber,  or 
where  the  barley  has  grown  a  golden  gray.  The  fox- 
tail grass  that  has  rippled  in  the  sun  in  rivers  of  green 
has  turned  to  red  or  blue  in  its  evolution  to  gleaming 
gold.  Down  the  valleys  great  patches  of  vivid  green 

65 


66  Life  in  the  Open 

are  seen,  the  vineyards  staggering  under  their  burdens 
of  grape,  the  orange  groves,  filled  with  half-grown  fruit, 
have  taken  on  a  deeper  tint,  and  the  blaze  of  poppies  of 
the  highlands  has  been  swept  away.  The  chorizanthe, 
with  its  tender  lavender  hues,  and  numbers  of  summer 
flowers  appear  in  wash  and  meadow.  The  sides  of  the 
little  cafions  pale  in  the  blooming  of  wild  buckwheat, 
and  the  bloom  of  the  white  sage  welcomes  the  bees  and 
countless  insects  along  the  range.  On  the  sides  of  the 
arroyos  the  deep  orange  trumpet  of  the  mimulus  makes 
a  flash  of  colour,  and  here  and  there  a  green  sumach 
is  overgrown  by  the  deep  red  panicles  of  the  wild 
honeysuckle. 

In  the  cafions  clumps  of  wild  roses  have  taken  on  a 
new  and  tender  green,  and  the  single  petalled  flowers 
that  in  spring  filled  the  air  with  sweetness  have  gone. 
Climbing  up  to  and  over  the  cottonwoods,  willows,  and 
sycamores  the  wild  grape  has  formed  a  dense  maze  that 
reaches  from  tree  to  tree,  the  highway  of  the  wood-rat, 
whose  ponderous  nest  of  leaves  and  brush  encompasses 
the  trunks  of  live  oaks  on  the  ground. 

The  summer  wind  has  died  down,  the  days  are  warm, 
the  nights  cool.  Smoke  rises  high  in  air,  vagrant  dust 
spouts  hang  undecided  in  the  valleys,  and  menacing, 
white  domelike  clouds  rise  thousands  of  feet  above  the 
wall  of  the  Sierras,  telling  of  the  desert.  The  face 
of  the  land  changes  as  the  days  drag  along  ;  the  hills 
become  grayer,  the  fiery  yellow  of  the  dodder  melts  into 
brown,  and  the  spiked  seed-pods  of  chilocothe  hang  on 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  67 

the  cactus,  half  covering  the  brilliant,  pinkish  yellow 
flowers,  and  in  the  washes  down  by  Sunny  Slope,  and  in 
the  open,  yellow  gourds  lie  ripening  in  the  sun. 

It  is  late  in  September ;  a  yellow  diaphanous  haze 
fills  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  colours  of  canon  and 
mountain  are  intensified.  The  front  range  is  a  light, 
hazy  blue.  Over  the  divide  the  second  range  takes  on 
a  deeper  tone,  while  the  tip  of  some  back  and  distant 
peak  is  purple  ;  the  entire  range  a  maze  of  delicate 
tints,  as  though  a  great  tourmalin  lay  glistening  in 
the  sun. 

The  cork  oaks  and  pines  pipe  fairy  music  in  the 
drowsy  air  and  the  canon  streams  run  low,  here  and 
there  dry  or  just  moist  enough  to  show  the  track  of 
some  dainty  footprint, — quail,  wood-rat,  or  snail. 

It  is  at  this  time,  the  period  of  dolce  far  niente  in 
Southern  California,  that  the  thoughts  of  hunters  turn 
to  game.  There  has  been  no  rain  since  May,  per- 
chance, but  suddenly  at  night  comes  a  gentle  fall. 
The  great,  white  cloud  mountains  from  the  desert  have 
been  blown  over  into  the  valleys  of  delight,  and  the 
first  rain  has  fallen.  It  is  out  of  season,  not  normal, 
and  has  no  significance.  Hardly  a  seed  responds,  and 
it  is  just  sufficient  to  lay  the  dust,  to  soften  the  sand  in 
the  arroyos  and  canons,  just  enough  to  hold  the  scent  of 
the  little  gray  and  red  fox  as  he  steals  along  the  washes 
in  search  of  quail  or  rabbit. 

This  explains  your  presence  in  the  arroyo  early 
in  the  morning,  while  the  sun  is  climbing  over  the 


68  Life  in  the  Open 

distant  mountains,  sending  shafts  of  fiery  red  into  the 
deep  blue  and  purple  canons.  The  washes  of  the  canon 
are  almost  dry  ;  only  stepping-stones  of  rock  tel 
story  of  a  winter  stream  ;  but  that  the  water  is  flowing 
along  beneath  the  surface,  the  cottonwoods,  willows, 
great  brakes,  and  tall  grasses  suggest. 

The  hounds,  followed  by  the  hunt,   have  wound 
down  a  little  trail  into  the  gulch,  where  they  spread  out 
and  cover  the  stream  and  its  branches.     O-o-o-o  !  rises 
the   deep   silvery   sound    floating  through   the   trees; 
O-(HH>  !   then   faster,  and  the  hounds  stop  a  moment 
before  several  plastic   impressions   in   the   sands,  and 
break  into  a  volley  of  resonant  bays  Oou,  Oou,  (9-0-0— that 
are  carried  far  into  the  brush  ;   now  along  the  sandy 
reaches,  up  over  mimic  sand  dunes,  down  into  small 
pools  where  windrows  of  shining  mica  lie  like  gold,  up 
the  bare  side  of  the  cafton,  into  great  masses  of  brakes 
and  ferns,  startling  a  bevy  of  quail,  old  and  young,  that 
rush  away  with  loud  whir,  whir,  whir  of  wings.     Louder 
the  deep  tones  rise,  culminating  in  the  ecstasy  of  melo- 
dious sounds,  and  the  horses  are    rushed  through  the 
underbrush  to  find  the  pack  leaping  about  an  old  oak 
up  whose  sides  trail  a  mass  of  green — the  wild  grape  of 
the  arroyo.     The  dogs  are  looking  upward ;  some  at 
the  foot  of  the  tree,  vainly  trying  to  leap  into  it,  others 
farther  off  eying  the  branches  with   eagerness,   occa- 
sionally letting  out  a  long,  plaintive  note  that  is  borne 
far  away  through  the  drowsy  air. 

I  had  followed  the  fox  in  Southern  California  before, 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  69 

so  kept  my  eye  on  the  wild  grape  where  it  fell  over  and 
covered  the  limb  of  a  sycamore.  As  I  looked,  out  from 
among  the  long  broad  leaves  I  saw  a  small,  black-gray 
face,  a  pointed  muzzle,  and  big  ears.  It  was  Reynard, 
and  in  defiance  of  any  Eastern  or  English  code  of  fox 
ethics,  he  was  in  the  tree-top  very  much  at  home, 
embowered  with  the  grape,  and  under  a  canopy  of 
light-green  mistletoe.  The  dogs  had  not  discovered 
him  ;  they  were  still  playing  on  the  accuracy  of  their 
scent.  Then  some  one  lifted  an  old  hound  into  the 
tree  and  the  dog  began  to  pick  his  way  upward.  Any 
one  who  has  never  seen  a  tree-climbing  hound  will 
hardly  believe  how  high  a  clever  and  eager  dog  will  go 
in  a  slanting  oak  or  sycamore.  This  hound  felt  his 
way  up  and  literally  bayed  the  fox  from  its  arboreal 
cover.  Out  it  sprang,  in  full  sight  of  the  hounds  that 
went  baying  mad ;  it  ran  along  the  grape  highway,  as 
nimbly  as  a  wood-rat,  leaped  into  the  sycamore,  out 
upon  a  long  branch  to  plunge  down  the  vines,  and  as 
quick  as  a  beam  of  light,  dropped  into  the  chaparral 
and  disappeared  with  the  hounds  in  full  cry. 

It  was  my  good  luck  to  fall  into  line  directly  behind 
the  hounds  and  I  saw  the  fox  take  an  oak.  It  did  not 
spring,  but  deliberately  shinned  up  the  small  trunk, 
reaching  a  limb  upon  which  it  swung,  then  leaped  into 
the  thick  branches  and  ran  from  tree  to  tree  with  a 
speed  with  which  I  could  not  keep  up,  owing  to  the 
thickness  of  the  trees,  reached  the  opposite  side  of  the 
arroyo,  and  from  a  small  sycamore  sprang  into  the 


;o  Life  in  the  Open 

underbrush.  Directed  by  me  the  hounds  soon  took  the 
trail  and  followed  the  fox  for  half  a  mile  along  the  edge 
of  the  bluff  ;  now  under  scrub  oaks,  out  by  great  clumps 
of  Heteromeles,  whose  berries  were  swelling  in  the  sun, 
then  passing  down  a  little  side  cafion  it  made  for  the 
main  branch,  and  went  up  and  over  the  ridge,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  baying  of  the  hounds. 

The  hunt  was  forced  to  go  around,  and  after  a  long 
ride  through  the  chaparral  came  upon  the  pack.  They 
had  run  the  fox  up  into  the  thick  branches  of  a  "holly," 
where,  not  five  feet  out  of  reach,  this  diminutive  Rey- 
nard sat  snarling  and  growling  at  them,  to  make  a 
brave  jump  and  carry  the  hunt  a  hundred  yards,  where 
on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  it  was  caught,  carrying  one  of 
the  dogs  over  into  the  green  abyss,  rolling  down,  fol- 
lowed by  the  baying,  yelping  pack  and  the  hunters, 
who,  dismounting,  slid  down  into  the  green  to  secure 
the  brush,  which  was  presented  to  the  lady  of  the  hunt 
whose  plucky  riding  had  commended  itself. 

The  game  was  hardly  half  as  large  as  the  ordinary 
fox  of  the  East,  and  known  as  the  coast  fox ;  found  all 
along  the  Californian  shores  and  on  all  the  islands ; 
ranging  from  Costa  Rica  to  the  north-west,  varying  in 
appearance  in  seasons  and  in  localities.  The  tail  is  about 
the  length  of  the  body  in  the  average  animal.  I  have 
seen  a  specimen  in  the  mountains  of  Santa  Catalina 
where  it  was  a  splendid  ornament.  The  tail  has  a  black 
stripe  above,  and  the  fur  of  the  body  is  dark,  even 
almost  black  above  and  reddish  below,  with  variations 


a 

a 

a> 
a, 
O 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  7i 

in  colour.  The  sides  of  the  muzzle  and  the  chin  are 
black,  which  gives  the  fox  the  appearance  of  a  raccoon 
and  withal  a  very  pleasant  face.  It  has  a  large  head, 
quite  as  large  in  some  instances  as  that  of  the  gray  fox, 
but  in  habit  the  California  fox  is  entirely  different.  The 
gray  and  the  red  fox  are  runners,  while  Reynard  of  Cali- 
fornia rarely  makes  a  very  long  run,  and  always  takes  to 
trees  when  hard  pressed,  leaping  into  them  when  it  can, 
"  shinning  "  up  when  it  cannot.  I  have  watched  these 
foxes  at  night  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  when  they 
thought  they  were  chased  by  a  coyote.  They  went 
up  the  straight  trunk  of  an  orange  tree  by  this  process, 
"  hitching  along,"  embracing  the  tree  like  a  cat,  and 
once  on  a  limb  reaching  the  others  and  the  top  of  the 
tree  in  a  marvellously  short  space  of  time. 

I  once  kept  two  foxes  as  pets.  A  paisano  brought 
them  to  me  and  said  that  they  were  tame,  but  I  learned 
later  that  one  bit  him  eight  or  ten  times  on  the  way 
down  from  the  mountain.  I  fastened  them  to  a  tree  as 
I  would  dogs,  and  invariably  found  them  in  the  tree-top 
in  the  morning.  In  the  arroyo  the  fox  lives  in  the 
thick  masses  of  vine  during  the  day,  makes  his  den  in 
some  hole  in  a  cliff,  coming  out  mainly  at  night,  though 
I  have  often  met  them  in  the  daytime  in  the  chaparral 
that  covers  the  lower  hills.  Any  canon  that  comes 
down  from  the  Sierras  is  the  home  of  this  little  red  and 
gray  fox.  You  may  find  him  at  Santa  Barbara,  in  the 
beautiful  glens  and  defiles  of  the  Santa  Ynez,  or  along 
and  around  Bear  Mountain,  back  of  Santa  Paula.  He 


72  Life  in  the  Open 

looks  down  upon  the  mountains  from  the  Strawberry 
Valley,  around  Idlewild,  and  the  great  slopes  of  San 
Antonio  and  the  clefts  of  Mount  Wilson  are  his  home ; 
or  you  may  find  him  in  the  Santiago  mountains,  where 
he  forms  the  game  par  excellence  for  the  Santiago  Hunt 
Club,  and  doubtless  helps  himself  to  the  chickens  of 
the  master  of  the  hounds  when  the  pack  is  away  on  a 
hunt;  indeed  you  may  find  this  little  fox  on  San  Nicolas 
Island,  and  on  San  Clemente,  where  he  is  smaller  than 
ever.  Everywhere  he  preys  upon  quail,  or  small  birds, 
varying  this  diet  with  tuna,  wild  grape,  or  chilocothe. 

They  are  particularly  common  at  Santa  Catalina. 
On  the  summit  of  this  island  is  a  range  of  mountains, 
named  for  Cabrillo,  the  discoverer  of  the  island,  which 
have  several  isolated  peaks,  twenty-two  hundred  feet 
in  height,  surrounded  by  a  maze  of  caftons.  In  between 
these,  running  directly  across  the  island,  is  a  long  and 
well-wooded  caflon,  in  its  lower  range  called  Middle 
Ranch,  the  Cabrillo  range  forming  the  south  wall  of 
green.  In  camp  here  one  is  never  away  from  the  me- 
lodious note  of  the  quail,  while  the  foxes  make  a  runway 
down  every  cafion  and  along  the  tops  of  the  range  where 
great  reaches  of  low  chaparral  sweep  away  to  the  sea. 
At  San  Clemente  they  stole  from  my  camp  and  came 
around  every  night. 

Fox-hunting  is  indulged  in  all  over  California,  but 
it  is  a  failure  in  the  open.  The  fox  will  make  a  long 
run  in  the  chaparral,  but  in  the  open  country  he  will 
run  for  the  trees  in  sight  and  leap  up  their  sides  with 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  73 

great  abandon.  I  remember  well  a  "  fox  hunt "  on  the 
mesa  in  my  early  days  in  California.  A  fox  having 
been  located  in  a  little  woodland  on  a  wide  mesa  that 
afforded  a  splendid  running  country,  a  hunt  was  organ- 
ised and  in  due  time  the  fox  started.  I  was  the  Master 
of  Fox-Hounds  that  day,  as  well  as  the  President  of  the 
Club,  and  the  hunt  was  looking  to  me  to  carry  out  the 
plan  of  an  old-fashioned  Virginia  fox  hunt.  The  hounds 
took  the  trail,  and  the  fox  responded.  He  dashed 
across  the  mesa,  stood  a  second  surveying  the  land- 
scape, then  selecting  the  only  tree  in  sight — an  oak — he 
ran  for  it,  and  the  hunt  and  pack  in  full  cry  followed — 
for  perhaps  three  hundred  yards;  then  Reynard  reached 
the  tree,  gaily  bounded  into  it,  and  was  placidly  sitting 
out  of  the  dogs'  reach  washing  his  face  when  the  hunt 
rounded  up.  It  is  best  to  draw  a  veil  around  so  harrow- 
ing a  scene,  but  I  believe  I  carried  that  fox  home,  brush 
and  all,  under  my  arm.  In  the  canons  the  fox  is  another 
creature,  or  in  park-like  regions,  as  the  splendid  reach 
at  Santa  Anita  rancho,  or  Santiago  or  Monticeto  caftons. 
Here  the  hounds  often  have  a  long  run  and  are  often 
baffled. 

The  Santiago  Hunt  Club  averages  about  fifteen  foxes 
a  season,  often  taking  them  in  September  and  October, 
the  driest  time  of  the  year.  The  dogs  of  this  club  are 
doubtless  the  best  foxhounds  now  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia. Mr.  J.  E.  Pleasants,  the  Master  of  Hounds,  and 
Mr.  C.  E.  Parker  of  Santa  Ana  have  taken  great  interest 
in  perfecting  Californian  foxhounds  from  stock  from  the 


74  Life  in  the  Open 

Southern  States.  An  average  run  of  this  club  after  a 
fox,  is  given  as  three  hours,  the  fox  being  generally 
treed  four  times  in  this  time,  and  often  killed  in  the  open 
after  a  run  of  perhaps  three  hundred  yards. 

While  fox-hunting  may  be  had  in  summer  and  as  the 
latter  wanes  in  October,  it  is  better  in  the  winter  when 
the  land  is  green  and  the  herbage  in  secluded  places 
damp,  holding  the  scent.  Then  the  country  is  ablaze 
with  colour.  The  mesa,  cafion,  arroyo,  and  mountain 
slope  each  has  its  special  floral  offering  to  delight  the 
hunter,  and  life  in  the  open  can  be  had  in  all  the  term 
implies.  Immediately  after  the  first  rain  is  doubtless 
the  most  favourable  season.  The  land  is  still  warm  and 
dry.  Perhaps  in  mid  October,  there  is  no  suspicion  of  a 
change,  and  a  thick  golden  haze  hangs  in  the  valleys,  so 
that  one  seems  to  see  the  mountains  through  opalescent 
lace.  The  nights  are  a  little  cooler,  the  wind  has  about 
died  away,  and  for  days  flocks  of  geese  and  cranes  have 
been  seen  flying  south  along  the  Sierra  Madre. 

You  are  familiar  with  the  fog  that  comes  in  from  the 
sea  against  the  wind  at  night  in  an  altogether  incompre- 
hensible fashion,  going  out  against  the  sea  breeze  in  the 
morning,  the  tonic  of  Southern  California,  the  balance 
wheel,  the  only  fog  in  the  world  possibly  that  is 
purely  harmless,  crepuscular,  nocturnal,  and  other  things. 
But  one  day  this  fog,  in  a  long,  feathery,  fan-shaped 
finger,  is  seen  creeping  along  the  slope  of  the  Sierras 
in  the  morning.  From  my  home  in  the  San  Gabriel  at 
Pasadena,  it  appears  to  come  up  the  Santa  Ana  River 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  75 

from  the  sea,  while  another  comes  stealing  along  the 
Sierra  Santa  Monica  range,  and  they  meet  at  the  main 
range. 

If  this  is  a  real  rain,  not  a  false  alarm,  it  spreads 
out  and  encompasses  the  whole  land  from  the  mountains 
to  the  sea,  and  after  much  coming  and  going,  halting 
and  coming  again,  the  rain  falls  softly  at  night.  I 
have  known  enthusiasts  to  go  out  and  stand  in  it,  when 
it  has  not  rained  for  eight  months.  It  rains  gently  all 
night,  and  in  the  morning  the  clouds  slink  away  and 
leave  another  land.  The  golden  haze  that  has  filled  the 
valley  is  gone,  there  is  a  new  tone,  a  new  world ;  the 
dust  has  been  washed  out  of  the  atmosphere,  the  trees 
are  green  and  bright,  the  Heteromeles  hold  up  their 
ripening  berries,  and  wild  lilac,  ironwood,  manzanita,  and 
a  score  of  trees  and  bushes  take  on  rich  green  tints 
under  this  night's  washing.  The  orange  and  eucalyptus 
groves  are  freshened  up  and  all  the  earth,  covered  with 
its  brown  and  seared  mass  of  winter  vegetation  and 
seeds,  takes  on  a  darker  brown.  Then  is  the  time  to 
take  out  the  hounds ;  the  damp  sand  of  the  cafions  is 
covered  with  grey  leaf  mould  that  photographs  the  im- 
print of  fox  or  bird,  and  retains  the  slightest  odour,  and 
the  hounds  at  once  pick  up  the  scent  and  follow  it  over 
and  through  the  devious  paths  and  trails  of  the  deep 
cafions. 

The  fox  is  a  very  minor  part  of  fox-hunting  in 
Southern  California.  I  have  spent  many  God-given 
days  in  the  cartons  of  the  range,  from  Santa  Barbara 


76  Life  in  the  Open 

to  San  Luis  Rey,  where  the  fox  was  but  an  excuse,  a 
leader  to  bring  one  in  touch  with  new  beauties,  new 
scenes.  I  spent  an  entire  winter  in  the  Sierra  Madre 
between  two  of  its  most  attractive  caftons,  and  very 
frequently  went  hunting  with  a  grey-  or  foxhound. 
What  game  we  found  and  ran  to  earth  in  these  splendid 
glades !  We  found  banks  of  wild  tiger  lilies,  cliffs  with 
backgrounds  of  bluebells  ;  there  were  brakes  as  tall  as 
a  man,  fragrant  bays,  and  down  the  valley,  on  the  slopes 
by  San  Jacinto,  the  Matilija  poppy  with  great  white 
petals  and  golden  centre.  We  hunted  the  fox  in  the 
splendid  Santa  Margarita  Rancho  that  overlooks  Elsi- 
nore,  and  wandered  among  the  mountains  that  rise 
back  of  the  fine  old  Missions  of  San  Juan  Capistrano 
and  San  Luis  Rey.  We  hunted  in  the  Coast  Range, 
down  the  cafion  of  Laguna  with  its  many  caves,  and 
along  shore,  where  the  rocks  reach  out  into  the  sea. 
All  over  Southern  California  the  little  fox  is  found,  and 
I  commend  it  to  the  sole  and  tender  mercies  of  your 
camera  at  times  when  the  hen-roosts  are  not  robbed. 
If  it  is  a  good  fox-hunting  winter,  this  first  rain  holds 
for  several  days  and  gives  the  thirsty  earth  an  inch  or 
two  of  rain ;  then  watch  the  staging  of  nature's  trans- 
formation scene.  The  change  is  so  sudden,  comes  on 
so  quickly  that  almost  the  following  week  you  may  see 
the  alfileria  rippling  away  over  lowland  and  mesa ; 
the  rains  have  washed  the  seeds  of  the  clovers  in  wind- 
rows, and  the  first  green  along  the  roads  and  trails 
comes  in  circles,  and  arcs,  then  fills  the  interstices,  and 


Fox-Hunting  in  California  77 

a  robe  of  verdure  reaches  away  over  the  hills  that  daily 
take  on  richer  and  darker  tones.  From  now  on  there 
is  a  procession  of  plant-life  from  the  far  north  to  Pa- 
lomar,  and  from  Pala  to  the  sea. 


Chapter  VI 

A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre 

IN  February  or  March  the  disciple  of  Walton,  in 
Southern  California,  begins  to  look  over  his  flies 
and  appropriate  the  big  worms  which  come  to 
the  surface  at  this  time  in  the  gardens  and  ranches,  as 
though  to  challenge  fate. 

The  land  is  still  in  the  grasp  of  winter  ;  the  high 
peaks  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  San  Jacinto,  and  San  Ber- 
nardino are  white  with  snow ;  and  over  the  orange 
trees  in  my  garden,  where  the  birds  fill  the  air  with 
melody,  I  see  a  white,  fluffy,  zephyr-like  cloud  hovering 
like  a  bird  on  San  Antonio ;  yet  not  a  cloud,  but  snow 
rolling  up  the  north  slope,  to  be  whirled  and  tossed  into 
the  air,  a  titanic  wraith,  that  falls  and  is  dissipated  by 
the  soft  airs  that  float  upward  from  the  valleys  that 
reach  away  to  the  distant  sea. 

There  has  been  a  snow-storm  in  the  San  Gabriel. 
The  walks  in  the  garden  are  white,  and  the  strong  west 
wind  plays  over  it,  robbing  the  violets  of  perfume.  But 
the  snowflakes  are  the  petals  of  orange  blossoms,  that 

81 


32  Life  in  the  Open 

fill  the  air  with  fragrance,  and  star  the  green  trees  of 
the  groves  with  silver  frosting. 

The  country  in  the  open  is  running  riot  with  flow- 
ers. It  has  been  a  rainy  winter  and  the  fall  came  early. 
Twenty  inches  have  fallen,  and,  as  though  touched  with 
a  magic  wand,  the  gray  sombre  beauties  of  the  land 
have  melted  imperceptibly  into  green.  You  may  almost 
see  it  spread  and  kindle  into  flame,  so  subtle,  so  rapid, 
is  the  response  of  nature  to  the  call  of  winter  or  spring. 
Over  all  the  land  is  spread  a  carpet  of  alfileria,  soft  as 
velvet,  and  radiant  in  changes  of  shade  and  tint,  as  the 
days  slip  away.  On  this  carpet  flowers  are  budding 
and  blooming,  and  as  the  trout  are  pushing  up-stream 
against  the  floods  that  are  coming  down,  the  land  be- 
comes a  garden  of  many  colours.  The  upland  slopes, 
the  great  mesa  in  the  San  Gabriel  and  beyond,  a're  a 
blaze  of  golden  yellow.  The  copa  de  oro  has  opened, 
and  the  land  is  a  field  of  the  cloth  of  gold,  the  cups  of 
gold  covering  barren  slopes,  drawing  a  mantle  over 
ragged  wastes  and  washes,  as  though  all  the  mines  of 
Southern  California  were  flowing  liquid  gold  that  ran 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 

There  is  a  procession  of  flowers  as  the  weeks  pass  : 
bells  of  cream  among  the  barley  or  by  the  roadside, 
bells  of  blue  along  the  trails,  violets  of  gold  and  brown 
in  the  fields  or  on  the  hillsides,  radiant  crucifers  in  yel- 
low and  white,  shooting-stars,  mariposa  lilies,  and  a  host 
of  others.  While  it  is  still  winter  in  the  East,  South- 
ern California  is  a  wild-flower  garden. 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       83 

As  the  days  pass,  the  floral  display  seems  to  attain 
its  maximum  effort,  and  then  there  comes  a  change ; 
Spring  is  pouring  her  glories  into  the  lap  of  Winter. 
The  rippling  fields  of  oats  and  barley  take  on  a  lighter 
green ;  the  south  face  of  the  range,  especially  the 
spurs  of  the  lower  mountains,  begins  to  turn  and  as- 
sume umber  and  grey  tints ;  new  and  strange  flowers 
appear ;  the  alfileria  seeds  are  boring  into  the  soil  ;  the 
wild-oat  awns  are  twisting  and  untwisting,  day  and 
night,  and  the  clovers  lie  brown  on  the  surface.  Tall 
green  forms  are  now  seen  on  the  hills, — forests  of  green 
against  the  slopes  ;  suddenly  they  turn  to  a  golden  hue, 
and  over  the  hills  the  golden  glow  of  the  mustard  races, 
bends  with  the  wind  in  varying  shades,  until  in  places 
the  entire  range  of  hills  have  become  mountains  of  gold 
through  which  one  can  ride,  the  blossoms  meeting  over 
the  horse's  head. 

On  the  mountain  slopes  the  green  Heteromeles  are 
spangled  with  white  blossoms,  and  the  sage-covered 
mesa  waves  in  masses  of  gray  and  green  spires.  Along 
the  foothills  a  little  wash  is  covered  with  wild  roses 
that  are  now  in  bloom,  filling  the  air  with  fragrance. 
The  Arroyo  Seco,  the  San  Gabriel,  the  Santa  Ana,  and 
the  Los  Angeles  rivers  have  in  the  centre  of  the  gravelly 
waste  a  silvery  stream  of  water ;  and  so  by  many  tokens 
the  angler  in  Southern  California  knows  that  winter  has 
waned,  and  April,  the  month  of  anglers,  when  the  rod  may 
be  plied,  has  come.  If  the  winter  has  been  very  rainy, 
if  thirty  or  forty  inches  has  fallen,  about  the  annual  fall 


84  Life  in  the  Open 

of  New  York,  the  cafion  streams  will  be  running  full, 
and  the  angler  will  have  to  wait  for  the  falling  of  the 
waters,  but  if  the  fall  has  been  normal  (eighteen  or 
twenty  inches),  good  sport  may  be  had  in  all  the  streams 
from  San  Luis  Obispo  to  San  Diego. 

Southern  California  in  summer  has  to  some  a  forbid- 
ding appearance.  The  flowers  have  gone,  the  sunlit 
hills  are  dry,  and  the  greens  have  become  browns  and 
grays  of  many  tints,  yet  all  attractive  and  appealing  to 
the  lover  of  colour.  The  great  vineyards  are  green, 
the  groves  of  lowland  oaks,  as  at  Arcadia,  Pasadena, 
and  La  Manda,  in  the  San  Gabriel  Valley,  the  Ojai,  and 
similiar  localities,  are  ever  green,  but  the  open,  tilted 
mesas,  except  where  covered  with  chaparral,  are  brown 
and  gray ;  and  the  streams,  patches  of  white  sand  and 
polished  gravel,  lie  blazing  in  the  sun,  certainly  not  sug- 
gestive of  trout,  rod,  or  reel.  But  these  California  rivers 
are  flowing,  seeping  on  beneath  the  ground,  and  by 
tracing  them  to  the  founts  from  which  they  come — the 
caftons  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  the  Santa  Ynez,  and  other 
ranges — the  angler  finds  himself  in  another  world,  the 
home  of  the  rainbow  trout. 

The  Sierra  Madre  face  the  sea  in  Southern  Califor- 
nia. At  Santa  Barbara  a  range — the  Santa  Ynez — 
almost  reaches  it.  The  Sierra  Santa  Monica  rano-e 
leaps  into  the  ocean,  and  to  pass  the  beach  the  angler 
enters  through  a  natural  arch  of  conglomerate.  From 
here  the  main  range  retreats,  forms  the  background  of 
the  San  Fernando  and  San  Gabriel  valleys,  the  valley 


The  Stairs  of  the  Mission  of  San  Gabriel  Arcangel 
near  Pasadena  on  the  King's  Highway. 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       85 

of  Redlands,  and  so  on,  while  a  coast  range,  with  Mount 
Santiago  as  its  Titan,  skirts  the  coast  within  a  few 
miles  of  it  far  to  the  south. 

Indeed,  Southern  California  is  a  maze  of  mountains 
and  its  towns  and  villages  are  all  on  mountain  slopes,  or 
in  little  valleys,  shut  in  by  vagrant  ranges  or  mountain 
spurs  that  seem  to  crop  up  and  to  extend  in  every 
direction.  The  main  range  stands  out  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, a  wall  of  rock,  often  seemingly  bare  and  barren, 
facing  the  sea.  It  is  cut  and  worn  by  the  wear  of 
centuries,  and  while  the  first  impression  may  be  disap- 
pointing, the  possibilities  of  this  barrier  of  stone,  in 
colour  making,  in  grand  and  beautiful  effects  of  light  and 
shade,  are  soon  appreciated.  The  mountains  seem  to 
be  a  mass  of  pyramids,  and  are  cut  by  innumerable 
canons  that  wind  down  from  the  summits,  each  having 
countless  branches.  At  irregular  intervals,  the  caftons 
open  into  the  valleys  and  sweep  on,  like  the  Arroyo 
Seco,  almost  to  Los  Angeles,  ten  miles  distant ;  cutting 
a  deep  and  well-wooded  gulch,  which  tells  of  the  force 
of  the  winter  floods  that,  beginning  far  back  in  the  range, 
come  rushing  down  augmented  by  thousands  of  smaller 
streams,  and  go  whirling  on  to  the  distant  sea. 

These  canons  are  the  gateways  to  the  Sierra  Madre, 
and  once  within  their  rocky  portals,  all  thoughts  of  bar- 
ren mountains  are  dissipated,  as  they  are  natural  parks, 
filled  with  green  bowers,  sylvan  glades,  banks  of  fern, 
the  music  of  the  rushing  brooks,  and  the  gentle  rust- 
ling of  countless  leaves;  while  the  air  is  rich  in  the 


86  Life  in  the  Open 

woodland  aromas — of  bay  and  many  more.  The  cafions 
are  found  all  along  the  range,  and  nearly  all  have  a  per- 
petual stream  like  the  Arroyo  Seco,  the  San  Gabriel, 
Santa  Ana,  and  Santa  Ynez,  the  cafions  and  streams 
in  San  Buenaventura  and  Santa  Barbara,  and  they  are 
stocked  and  protected  by  game-laws  of  the  State. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Los  Angeles  the  San  Gabriel 
Carton  affords  the  best  fishing,  being  a  large  carton  that 
reaches  far  back  into  the  range,  to  appreciate  which  one 
must  stand  on  Wilson's  Peak,  six  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  and  look  down  into  this  great  gorge  worn  out 
by  the  water.  This  carton  and  its  forks  abound  in  trout 
pools,  in  picturesque  rocks,  precipitous  walls,  and 
splendid  vistas  of  mountains  rising  one  above  the 
other,  peak  above  peak,  range  above  range.  Here  the 
Creel  and  Bait  clubs  make  their  headquarters ;  and 
there  are  several  public  camps  which  afford  accommoda- 
tions for  the  weary  angler. 

The  carton  trail  crosses  and  recrosses  the  stream  of 
clear  water ;  now  plunging  into  mimic  forests  of  oak ; 
coming  out  into  the  open  to  enter  little  glades ;  some- 
times the  carton  opens  out  widely,  again  it  narrows  and 
forms  great  rifts  in  the  rock.  In  the  open  places  there 
are  little  mesas,  often  dotted  with  oak  trees — ideal 
places  for  camps. 

A  succession  of  these  beautiful  cartons  is  found 
along  the  entire  face  of  the  Sierra  Madre.  On  the  first 
of  April  every  trout  stream  from  Santa  Barbara  to  San 
Jacinto  and  beyond  has  its  anglers.  Some  idea  of  the 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       87 

beauties  of  these  resorts  can  be  had  by  a  four-mile  ride 
from  Pasadena,  at  the  head  of  the  San  Gabriel  Valley. 
The  town  lies  on  the  bank  of  the  Arroyo  Seco,  which 
abounded  in  trout  for  almost  its  entire  length  some  years 
ago,  but  they  have  been  forced  to  the  upper  ranges.  A 
fairly  good  trail  extends  up  the  canon  twelve  or  fifteen 
miles,  taking  one  into  the  very  heart  of  this  part  of  the 
Sierra  Madre.  Near  by  is  Millard  Canon,  a  beautiful 
gorge  with  a  notable  fall  splashing  over  beds  of  ferns, 
the  canon  then  winding  its  way  upward  six  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea. 

The  San  Gabriel  Canon,  the  head  waters  of  the 
river  of  that  name,  always  has  fishing  unless  the  water 
is  too  high  ;  but  the  smaller  canons  fail  sometimes  for 
opposite  reasons,  the  supply  of  rain  often  being  too  low 
for  a  period  of  years,  killing  off  the  fish.  But  in  fishing 
all  is  not  fish,  and  some  of  the  most  enjoyable  days  I 
have  had  in  Southern  California  have  been  in  the  hey- 
day of  the  Arroyo  Seco,  when  its  pools  were  full,  and 
its  stream  musical,  laughing  waters.  Countless  times 
the  trail  crosses  the  stream,  and  I  have  stopped  at  the 
crossing,  and,  while  my  horse  cooled  his  hoofs,  cast 
down  the  stream  from  the  saddle  and  hooked  a  fish  in 
the  riffle. 

A  delight-giver  indeed  was  this  stream.  It  began 
far  away  in  the  upper  range  and  drained  many  square 
miles  of  surface ;  cool,  pure  as  crystal  I  often  stood 
on  its  edge,  or  on  some  rock,  and  watched  it  go  whirling 
by ;  now  loud  and  melodious,  as  it  ran  over  some  rocky 


88 


Life  in  the  Open 


reach,  then  gliding  smoothly  over  a  moss-covered 
incline  to  rush  out  into  the  open  and  form  a  little  lake 
where  the  willow  leaves  made  an  arcade  of  green  tracery 
over  its  surface,  and  their  red  roots  blazed  in  the 
shallows.  Here  great  banks  of  ferns  and  brakes  grow 
beneath  the  bays,  and  just  above,  you  cast  and  unreel 
and  let  the  capricious  stream  take  you  down  the  stream. 
It  seems  an  impossible  place,  with  its  polished  rocks, 
projecting  ledges,  the  big  tangles  of  brush,  but  down 
goes  the  fly  to  the  melody  of  running  waters.  It 
shoots  along,  enters  a  little  arcade  of  brakes,  and  then, 
ah  !  how  the  line  straightens  out ;  a  new  and  unknown 
music,  the  click  of  the  reel,  breaks  in  upon  the  rush  of 
waters  and  the  rustle  of  leaves ;  how  the  slender  rod 
bends  and  doubles  as  the  gamy  trout  of  the  Sierra 
Madre  makes  its  rush  down-stream,  dashing  by  polished, 
slippery  stones,  around  the  smooth  edge  of  boulders, 
through  the  rift  where  the  sun  blazes  brightly,  and 
caressing  the  water  with  its  sparkle,  out  and  along  the 
edge,  to  stop,  double  around  a  stone,  and  come  up- 
stream with  a  flying  rush.  This  is  a  trout  stream  indeed. 
There  is  not  a  ragged  stone  in  sight ;  the  waters  have 
worn  and  polished  every  one,  so  that  even  the  tree-toads 
that  mimic  them  have  difficult  work  to  hold  on.  This 
saved  the  day,  as  the  line  slipped  deftly  over  their  sides 
and  came  taut  just  as  the  gamy  fish  made  another 
splendid  rush  clear  away,  with  the  reel  in  full  cry,  zee, 
zee,  zeeee,  echoing  musically  among  the  willows  and 
alders.  Nowhere  was  the  water  over  a  foot  in  depth. 


W) 
3 


«§• 


-C 


v  » 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre 


89 


There  were  no  deep  pools,  yet  this  radiant  creature 
played  his  game  with  a  skill  that  was  marvellous.  In  he 
came  on  the  reel,  bending  the  split  bamboo  to  the  dan- 
ger point,  then  breaking  away  in  the  riffle,  bounding  on 
slack  line  into  the  air  a  foot  or  more,  shaking  himself 
like  a  black  bass,  landing  almost  in  the  shallows  to  shoot 
into  midstream  in  so  gallant  a  rush  that  I  was  forced 
ahead,  and  led  down  through  the  green  where  he 
plunged  into  a  little  cascade,  made  a  quick  turn,  and 
dashed  into  a  wide  but  shallow  pool,  taking  his  place 
beneath  a  huge  combing  rock  to  defy  me,  forcing  me 
down  so  that  I  had  to  cross  the  reach  and  play  him  from 
a  little  gravel  beach  in  the  eddy.  As  I  routed  him  out 
he  went  into  the  air,  and  for  a  second  I  saw  him  in  a 
rift  of  the  sun — a  radiant,  beautiful  creature,  too  beauti- 
ful to  catch.  Time  and  again  he  manoeuvred  to  go  up 
or  down,  but  by  more  luck  than  skill  I  kept  him  there, 
played  him  to  a  finish  in  what  was  doubtless  his  home, 
and  brought  him,  fighting,  to  the  net,  the  living  rainbow 
of  the  Sierra  Madre. 

I  have  landed  brook  and  lake  trout  and  some  of  the 
gamiest  fishes  of  the  sea,  but  inch  for  inch  this  trout  of 
the  Coast  Range,  this  Salmo  iridius,  is  the  peer  of  them 
all.  Perhaps  it  was  my  fancy,  possibly  I  was  carried 
away  by  the  beauty  of  the  place,  the  charm  of  the  situa- 
tion, but  I  forgot  certain  black  bass,  certain  brook  trout, 
and  a  wild,  miniature  gorge  I  knew  in  New  England,  and 
mentally  awarded  the  rainbow  the  palm. 

The  fish  which  I  took  from  the  net  weighed  nearly 


90  Life  in  the  Open 

two  pounds  and  was  an  ideal  trout — a  splendid  fellow, 
that,  dying,  eyed  me  with  disdain.  He  was  well  propor- 
tioned, and  comparing  him  to  the  brook  trout  I  saw  that 
he  had  larger  eyes,  a  small  mouth,  the  head  more  salmon 
like.  His  colour  on  the  back  was  an  iridescent  green  ; 
the  sides  lighter,  tending  to  white,  and  dotted,  stamped 
with  small,  black,  velvet-like  spots,  while  from  gills  to  tail 
was  a  band  of  reddish  blotches,  a  combination  that  blazed 
like  a  rainbow  when  the  trout  leaped  in  the  sunlight. 

I  kept  on  up  the  cafton,  following  the  trail,  then 
taking  the  stream  and  fishing  down,  in  short  sections, 
with  varying  success  and  always  a  splendid  play  from  the 
animate  rainbow.  In  these  wilds  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  at 
least  half  the  charm  is  the  environment.  I  walked  or 
rode,  led  on  and  on  by  the  constant  change,  then  turned 
and  followed  the  stream  in  its  race  to  the  sea,  to  again 
turn  back.  As  I  worked  into  the  range  the  canon  deep- 
ened and  large  pools  and  deep  gorges  appeared.  Once  I 
crept  up  to  one  twenty  feet  across ;  and  on  its  rim  grew 
masses  of  brakes,  olive-green  plumes  that  caught  the 
slightest  breeze.  Opposite  were  groups  of  wild  lilac, 
its  delicate  lavender  flowers  showering  into  the  pool, 
while  long,  pointed  bay-leaves,  like  mimic  ships,  and 
acorns  nearly  two  inches  long,  that  had  rolled  down  the 
cafion  side,  floated  about.  On  one  side  clumps  of 
columbine  made  a  blaze  of  colour  ;  and  on  the  other 
a  vivid  green  carpet  of  moss  marked  the  passage  of  the 
stream  from  the  pool  above ;  the  water  coming  gently 
down  like  a  sheet  of  quicksilver. 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       9J 

Into  this  mirror  of  delights  I  cast,  dropping  a  fly  di- 
rectly at  the  foot  of  a  white  rock,  with  no  response. 
Again  I  tried,  then,  failing  to  secure  a  rise,  I  climbed 
above  and  crept  through  the  verdure,  pushing  aside  big 
bunches  of  fern,  to  the  edge  and  looked  in. 

The  water  was  a  splendid  emerald  green,  and  at 
the  bottom  I  made  out  several  trout  gently  fanning 
the  current.  The  next  fly  bore  a  worm,  but  not  a 
fish  moved.  I  tried  all  the  flies  I  had,  and  finally 
in  desperation  caught  a  tree-toad  from  the  rocks  and 
cast. 

This  was  the  lure  of  lures.  A  great  trout  came 
partly  out  of  water,  like  a  flash  of  light,  and  then  some- 
thing went  bounding  into  the  air,  shooting  over  the 
edge  of  the  basin  down  the  stream  to  the  next  pool. 
It  is  always  the  largest  fish  that  escapes,  and  I  have 
been  told  trout  have  been  taken  in  this  stream  that 
weighed  fourteen  pounds.  I  think  I  saw  one,  for  a 
fleeting  moment,  against  the  green  brakes  ;  but  it  is 
needless  to  harass  the  memory. 

If  one  had  the  space  and  inclination  to  chronicle  the 
various  tales  of  the  rainbow  trout,  its  leaps  and  plays,  a 
small  volume  could  be  made  on  this  fascinating  theme 
alone.  A  friend  told  me  that  in  casting  with  three  flies 
two  fishes  saw  them  coming,  met  them  a  foot  or  two  in 
the  air  and  were  caught  after  a  splendid  play. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  came  to  a  deep  pool  of  the 
arroyo  abounding  in  trout  of  small  size,  and  might  have 
filled  my  creel,  but  I  climbed  the  cafton  side,  made  the 


92  Life  in  the  Open 

trail,  and  later  crossed  the  stream  and  rode  into  camp, 
twelve  miles  from  the  valley,  four  thousand  feet  up,  and 
in  the  heart  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  with  range  after  range 
between  me  and  the  sea.  The  camp  was  a  log-cabin 
of  an  old  mountain  friend,  and  that  night  I  sat  by  the 
fire  and  looked  up  the  chimney  and  counted  the  stars, 
listened  to  the  cry  of  strange  birds  and  the  weird  laugh 
of  the  coyote,  and  breathed  the  rich  odors  of  forest 
trees,  nodes  ambrosiancz.  Since  then  this  attractive 
cafton  has  been  swept  by  fire,  and  has  lost  much  of  its 
beauty  ;  but  new  trees  are  growing,  and  Nature  will  soon 
renew  its  delights  and  fascinations. 

The  San  Gabriel  Cafion  with  its  splendid  reaches  is 
the  home  of  the  rainbow  trout,  and  some  fine  catches 
have  been  made  here  by  lucky  anglers.  The  San  Gabriel 
River  is  available  from  several  points.  The  angler  will 
find  the  Mount  Wilson  Trail  at  Eaton  Cafion,  Pasadena, 
a  delightful  diversion.  It  carries  one  from  Pasadena 
eleven  miles  up  the  slope  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  nearly 
six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea ;  affording  innumerable 
views  which  well  repay  the  trip,  aside  from  the  objective. 
The  summit  of  Mount  Wilson  is  an  attractive  park, 
the  site  of  the  astrophysical  observatory  under  Dr. 
George  E.  Hale.  Near  here  are  two  camps  or  hotels 
where  the  angler  will  find  congenial  entertainment,  and 
the  latest  fish  stones.  The  trail  down  the  north  slope 
is  about  four  miles  in  length,  and  can  be  made  by  burro 
or  horse,  or  on  foot,  and  the  angler  will  find  one  of 
the  most  tremendous  "  drops "  in  the  Sierras,  literally 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       93 

about  a  thousand  feet  to  the  mile.  This  leads  to  the 
wild  and  picturesque  West  Fork  of  the  San  Gabriel 
Canon,  and  whether  a  burro  with  a  pack  can  penetrate 
it  depends  upon  the  individuality  of  the  burro  and  the 
effect  the  elements  have  had  upon  the  stream  during 
the  past  winter.  The  camp  authorities  will  doubtless 
post  themselves  in  the  future  as  to  the  condition  of  this 
trail  and  the  West  Fork ;  the  angler  can  be  advised  in 
Pasadena  by  telephone,  and  if  the  trail  down  the  West 
Fork  is  not  available,  he  can  have  his  outfit  shipped  to 
Follow's  Camp  from  Azusa,  and  make  the  descent  of 
Mount  Wilson  in  light  marching  order,  with  blankets 
and  rations  for  two  days.  A  better  plan  is  to  take  a 
guide  who  will  pack  the  light  kit  and  leave  the  angler 
full  play  with  the  rod  along  this  fine  stream,  with  its 
thirty  miles  of  fishing,  which  will  bring  him  in  two  days 
to  Rincon,  where  the  stage  can  be  taken  for  Azusa. 

It  is  assumed  that  the  angler  of  Southern  California 
is  a  lover  of  mountain  climbing,  and  this  route  is  a  con- 
stant delight  to  such  an  enthusiast.  The  view  from  near 
the  pagoda-like  observatory  into  the  San  Gabriel  abyss 
is  a  revelation  in  itself — a  deep  gulf  or  rift  worn  out  by 
the  rush  of  waters.  It  invites  the  angler  in  a  thousand 
tongues  to  descend  and  explore,  and  tosses  back  his 
voice  in  a  marvellous  series  of  echoes. 

Around  Santa  Barbara  and  San  Buenaventura  in 
the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains  some  charming  trout  streams 
may  be  found,  which  are  now  systematically  stocked  and 
protected.  The  Sespe,  fed  by  cool  springs  and  the 


94  Life  in  the  Open 

drainage  of  a  large  area  of  mountains,  is  one  of  the 
most  attractive  streams  in  Southern  California  for  the 
early  trout  fishing.  From  Los  Angeles  it  is  reached  by 
taking  the  train  to  Fillmore,  about  fifty  miles  distant, 
from  which  the  angler  goes  about  five  miles  by  team  to 
Devil's  Gate,  reaching  Pine  and  Coldwater  creeks  and 
the  West  Fork.  If  the  angler  desires  to  intercept  the 
Sespe  between  its  rise  and  the  sea,  he  can  go  up  the 
Ojai  Valley  from  Ventura.  Along  this  road,  a  fine  trout 
stream  flows,  a  constant  delight  to  the  stroller. 

From  Nordhoff,  the  little  town  in  the  Ojai  Valley- 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  bits  of  country  in  Southern 
California,  with  its  big  trees,  its  velvet-like  carpet,  its 
multitude  of  birds,  and  lofty  hills  all  about, — the  angler 
can  ride  on  horseback  twenty  miles  over  the  mountains, 
coming  out  at  the  Sespe  near  Sulphur  Springs. 

Near  here  is  the  romantic  Matilija  Cafton  ;  and  at 
Santa  Paula  the  picturesque  creek  of  that  name  and 
the  Sisar  flow  through  a  wild  and  attractive  country, 
affording  ideal  conditions  for  the  angler.  Santa  Paula 
Carton  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  this  part 
of  the  Sierras,  and  the  accommodations  at  Sulphur 
Mountain  Springs  are  excellent.  The  summit  of  Sulphur 
Mountain,  easily  reached  from  here,  is  the  centre  of  a 
fine  hunting  country ;  deer,  dove,  quail,  and  trout  being 
the  special  attractions  to  the  stroller  through  the  range. 

The  Los  Angeles  River  as  it  passes  through  the 
City  of  the  Angels  is  a  river  by  courtesy  at  times,  but 
after  a  rain  in  the  mountains,  it  often  runs  banks  full. 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       95 

Tracing  it  up,  it  winds  through  San  Fernando  Valley 
and  merges  into  the  Tejunga,  its  main  source  of  supply, 
which  with  the  Santa  Clara  River  in  the  upper  Soledad 
Canon  often  provides  the  angler  with  fair  sport. 

Many  of  these  streams  that  sink  into  the  sand  in 
places,  as  the  Los  Angeles  River  in  the  San  Fernando 
Valley,  and  the  Arroyo  Seco,  and  seep  along  beneath 
the  surface  for  miles,  to  appear  again,  are  sources  of 
constant  wonder  to  the  angler  who  knows  only  Eastern 
brooks  that  always  hold  their  own  in  the  open,  and  flow 
through  fields  of  nodding  flowers  ;  but  the  California 
streams  reach  the  sea  at  times  in  winter,  though  during 
the  summer  and  fishing  season  they  are  often  land- 
locked by  sandy  wastes. 

The  rainbow  trout  is  indigenous  to  the  California 
Coast  Range  canon  streams,  and  ranges  from  the  Klam- 
ath  down  to  about  the  Missions  of  San  Juan  Capistrano 
or  San  Luis  Rey,  and  varies  much  in  colour  in  different 
localities. 

I  have  seen  one  from  the  Arroyo  Seco  upper  pool 
that  was  a  light  olive-green,  covered  regularly  from 
head  to  tail  with  small  round  black  spots.  Another 
trout  taken  in  the  San  Gabriel  was  blue  and  had 
splashes  of  red  upon  the  sides  ;  the  belly  of  pearl,  with 
faint  spots.  The  large  fish  in  the  streams  of  Santa 
Barbara,  Ventura,  Los  Angeles,  and  San  Diego  now 
range  from  one  to  two  and  three  pounds  when  sea  run  ; 
but  Sage  gives  the  maximum  weight  of  Williamson 
River  trout  as  thirteen  pounds,  and  Mr.  W.  H.  Glass 


96  Life  in  the  Open 

tells  me  that  his  largest  rainbow,  taken  in  Bear  Valley 
Lake,  weighed  ten  and  one  half  pounds,  while  another 
weighed  twelve  and  one  half  pounds. 

The  fame  of  the  rainbow  trout  has  travelled  wher- 
ever rods  are  known,  and  the  fish  has  been  distributed 
far  and  wide,  even  introduced  into  England ;  and  almost 
everywhere,  it  is  said,  retains  its  wonted  vigour  and 
game  qualities.  The  open  season  in  California  is  from 
April  first  to  November  first,  and  in  San  Bernardino 
County  from  May  fifteenth  to  November  first. 

A  feature  of  fishing  in  Southern  California  is  the 
ease  with  which  the  mountains  are  reached.  Los 
Angeles  is  but  thirteen  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Arroyo  Seco,  Millard,  and  other  attractive  canons  ;  the 
Ojai  Valley,  Santa  Paula,  or  Santa  Barbara  streams 
are  but  a  few  hours  distant,  while  the  San  Gabriel 
River  can  be  reached  from  the  city  by  train  to  Azusa  in 
less  than  an  hour,  where  a  stage  takes  the  angler  into 
the  mountains  to  any  of  the  camps  along  these  typical 
Southern  California  streams.  The  camps  are  at  an 
altitude  of  several  thousand  feet,  where  hot  weather  is 
practically  unknown  ;  indeed,  one  of  the  surprises  to  the 
angler  in  this  country  is  the  summer  climate :  warm 
days  come  in  trios  and  pass,  but  sunstroke  and  heat 
of  the  character  that  is  experienced  in  Chicago,  New 
York,  and  other  Eastern  cities  is  unknown. 

The  available  waters  of  Southern  California  lakes 
and  streams  are  stocked  yearly  by  the  State  Board  of 
Fish  Commissioners  with  rainbow,  Eastern  brook  trout, 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       97 

and  cut-throat  trout.  Black  bass  have  also  been  placed 
in  lakes  and  reservoirs  in  Los  Angeles,  Orange,  and 
Santa  Barbara  counties.  Too  much  credit  cannot  be 
given  the  Board  of  State  Commissioners,  as  were  it 
not  for  their  constant  efforts  trout  fishing  would  have 
been  a  thing  of  the  past  long  ago  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia. Every  year,  every  available  stream  is  supplied. 
San  Bernardino  receives  one  hundred  thousand  fry  per 
annum.  The  Bear  Valley  reservoir  is  constantly  re- 
stocked, as  are  all  the  tributaries  of  the  Santa  Ana  River 
and  the  San  Gabriel,  and  those  in  the  counties  of  Santa 
Barbara,  Ventura,  and  San  Diego.  The  Rio  Colorado 
has  been  stocked  with  black  bass  at  the  Needles,  and 
the  sun-perch  placed  in  the  artificial  reservoirs  on  the 
desert  at  Indio,  Thermal,  and  Mecca.  Bear  Valley 
Lake  contains  the  rainbow  and  the  Tahoe  Lake  trout, 
and  large  specimens  have  been  taken. 

Dr.  Benjamin  Page,  of  Pasadena,  who  has  camped 
in  the  splendid  forests  about  the  great  lake,  is  the  dean 
of  the  anglers  and  mountain  lovers  who  fish  here.  He 
has  cast  a  fly  into  every  pool  in  the  range,  and  has  made 
some  notable  catches.  One  I  recall,  taken  in  the  Bear 
Valley  Lake  in  July,  with  rod  and  grey  badger  fly 
and  helgramite  bait,  was  two  feet  one  inch  in  length,  one 
foot  two  and  a  half  inches  in  girth,  and  weighed  seven 
and  a  half  pounds.  This  fine  fish,  a  Tahoe  Lake 
trout,  fought  the  skilled  angler  an  hour  and  sixteen 
minutes  before  it  could  be  brought  to  gaff,  and  was  but 
one  of  a  notable  catch  made  by  Dr.  Page's  party. 

7 


98  Life  in  the  Open 

The  pools  in  Deep  Creek,  in  the  San  Bernardino 
mountains,  are  of  great  beauty  and  size,  often  chiselled 
out  of  the  rocky  and  literal  basins  of  stone,  flanked  by 
stupendous  masses  of  rock,  down  which  the  clear  waters 
splash  and  foam,  pouring  from  one  great  pool  into 
another  on  their  way  down  the  stupendous  slope  of 
the  range.  Such  is  the  lower  Big  Pool.  The  upper  Big 
Pool,  Deep  Creek,  is  even  more  remarkable,  if  possible, 
for  its  water-worn  rocks,  the  clearness  of  the  water,  and 
its  melody  where  it  falls  in  a  level  sheet ;  then  striking 
a  sloping  ledge  it  bounds  down  into  the  pool,  a  mass  of 
molten  silver,  carrying  life  and  aeration  into  an  ideal 
pool  in  the  heart  of  the  forest  where  the  angler  does  not 
cast  in  vain. 

This  fine  mountain  stream  well  illustrates  the  possi- 
bilities of  mountain  climbing  and  trout  fishing,  abound- 
ing in  long  reaches  of  forest,  tumbling  down  great 
distances  in  short  periods,  at  once  one  of  the  hardest 
streams  to  climb,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
satisfactory  to  the  lover  of  mountain  life. 

Deep  Creek  is  an  eastern  fork  and  possibly  the 
largest  branch  of  the  Mojave  River,  and  can  be  traced 
into  a  desert  second  only  to  the  Sahara  in  its  terrors 
of  heat  in  midsummer  ;  hence,  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able trout  streams  in  the  world  for  its  contrasts.  If 
any  one  should  point  out  this  dry  river-bed  in  the 
desert  as  a  trout  stream,  he  would  be  laughed  at,  as  it  is 
a  mere  streak  of  water-polished  stones  overwhelmed  by 
sand-dunes  for  miles  over  the  desert,  what  water  there  is 


A  Rainbow  in  the  Sierra  Madre       99 

being  far  below  the  surface  or  entirely  gone  ;  but  if  traced 
up  to  the  foot  of  the  San  Bernardino  range,  that  rises 
ten  thousand  feet  above  the  desert,  it  soon  appears 
and  for  miles  climbs  the  Sierras  as  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive trout  streams  in  California,  abounding  in  huge 
pools,  and  scenery  of  the  wildest  description,  where  the 
elements  appear  to  have  had  full  sway  and  have  vented 
their  fury  upon  rock,  forest,  and  range. 

The  stroller  along  the  picturesque  shores  of  South- 
ern California  will  find  here  and  there  peculiar  lagunas, 
—small  bodies  of  water  separated  from  the  sea  by  the 
sand-dunes,  yet  at  high  tide  connected  by  a  little  chan- 
nel that  at  other  times  is  not  always  apparent. 

These  lagunas  are  often  the  mouths  of  the  Southern 
California  trout  streams.  There  is  one  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Santa  Ynez,  near  Lompoc,  reached  by  steamer, 
stage,  or  rail  from  Santa  Barbara  ;  one  at  Alamitos, — and 
at  Long  Beach  where  the  San  Gabriel  River  reaches 
the  sea  ;  another  at  Venice,  where  the  genius  of  Abbot 
Kinney  has  produced  a  beautiful  town  on  water-way 
streets,  after  the  Venetian  fashion  ;  another  is  found  in 
San  Diego  County  where  the  San  Luis  Rey  River  runs 
into  the  sea  ;  and  there  are  many  others  along  shore ; 
but  the  four  mentioned  are  the  mouths  of  rivers  down 
which  trout  may  reach  the  sea,  at  times,  and  in  and 
about  which  is  found  the  steel-head,  supposed  by  some 
to  be  the  sea-living  form  of  the  rainbow,  but  by  others 
considered  a  distinct  species.  The  steel-head  bears 
some  resemblance  to  the  rainbow,  but  would  never  be 


ioo  Life  in  the  Open 

mistaken  for  it,  at  least  in  the  south.  In  April  and 
May  it  can  be  found  about  the  entrance  to  some  of 
these  streams,  and  in  the  Santa  Ynez  has  been  taken 
weighing  twenty  pounds,  leaping  five  or  six  feet  into 
the  air  when  hooked,  and  making  a  splendid  and  vigor- 
ous play  on  light  tackle. 


Chapter  VII 

Following  the  Lowland  Wolf 

THE  meet  of  the  Valley  Hunt  was  at  a  certain 
oak  not  far  from  the  edge  of  the  Arroyo  Seco. 
At  an  early  hour  the  soft  melody  of  a  horn 
came  through  the  orange  groves  followed  a  few  mo- 
ments later  by  hounds  and  riders,  the  men  mounted  on 
high-pommelled  Mexican  saddles  with  a  brave  showing 
of  silver  and  carved  leather. 

It  was  a  winter  morning  in  Southern  California,  and 
as  the  hunt  turned  to  the  south  and  rode  through  Pasa- 
dena the  ground  was  silvered  with  heavy  frost  in  places, 
the  summits  of  the  Sierra  Madre  were  white  with 
snow,  and  the  sentinel  peaks  of  San  Antonio  and  San 
Jacinto,  ten  thousand  feet  in  air,  loomed  up,  white 
domes  against  the  pink  glow  of  the  morning  sky.  You 
could  see  the  snow  flying  on  San  Antonio,  hovering 
like  a  cloud  at  its  summit ;  you  could  see  the  big 
trees  laden  with  snow  on  Mount  Wilson  and  Mount 
Disappointment.  Winter  was  abroad  and  visible,  but 
here,  mocking-birds,  orioles,  finches,  song-sparrows,  from 

103 


I04  Life  in  the  Open 

every  tree  and  bush  sang  of  spring  and  summer.  The 
blossoms  of  the  heliotrope,  banked  against  houses, 
filled  the  air  with  fragrance  ;  roses  piled  high  in  great 
masses  of  splendid  colour  over  doorways  and  verandas ; 
the  orange  groves  were  white  with  bloom,  and  as  the 
hunt  left  the  town  and  struck  into  the  open  the  full 
beauty  of  this  California  winter  was  seen.  Fields  of 
barley  stretched  away  on  every  hand  ;  acres  of  oranges 
and  lemons,  and  groves  of  pom-pon-like  eucalyptus. 
The  roads  and  lanes  were  lined  with  green,  and  great 
stretches  were  starred  in  yellows — the  faces  of  a  small 
daisy-like  flower, — while  the  Copa  de  oro  was  unfolding, 
releasing  countless  bees  that  had  passed  the  night  in 
these  golden-tinted  prisons  along  the  mesa.  It  was 
winter  in  Southern  California — winter  among  palms, 
bananas,  and  a  host  of  tropical  and  semi-tropical  trees. 
Yet  the  air  was  crisp  and  cool,  as  one  might  expect 
where  the  night-wind  had  caressed  snow  and  ice  on  the 
slopes  of  San  Antonio. 

The  Valley  Hunt  pack  consisted  of  about  fifteen 
greyhounds,  built  for  endurance  ;  tall,  rangy,  as  large  as 
deerhounds ;  some  coming  from  Australian  stock,  that 
had  hunted  the  kangaroo  in  the  open  reaches  of  that 
country ;  others  having  been  bred  to  the  hard  work  of 
taking  jack  rabbits  in  the  great  vineyards.  Massed, 
they  presented  an  inspiring  picture,  as  they  trotted 
along;  their  trim,  blue-and-tan  coats  shining;  their 
bright  intelligent  eyes  glancing  to  right  and  left. 

The  game  on  this  winter   morning  was  to  be  the 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        105 

coyote  or  lowland  wolf,  the  clever  animal  so  familiar  in 
the  West.  Only  the  day  before  I  had  seen  the  feathers 
of  a  turkey  in  the  middle  of  a  wide  street ;  the  ventrilo- 
quistic  laugh  of  the  coyote  had  been  heard  over  the 
arroyo,  at  San  Rafael,  and  the  time  seemed  auspicious. 

For  a  mile  the  horses  walked  to  the  south,  reaching 
a  point  midway  to  the  Mission  Hills  from  Pasadena,  then 
turned  into  the  fields,  which  were  open  and  clear  to  the 
San  Marino  vineyard,  two  miles  distant.  Here  a  stop 
was  made  and  saddles  re-cinched.  When  a  clever  Cali- 
fornia horse  is  cinched,  he  takes  a  long  breath  and  re- 
sists, and  as  soon  as  the  rider  is  mounted  he  "  shrinks  " 
to  a  remarkable  degree ;  hence  a  second  or  often  a 
third  cinching  is  necessary  before  a  long  run. 

The  master  of  the  hounds  was  now  fifty  feet  ahead 
with  the  hounds,  and  the  hunt  moved  on  over  the 
alfileria  and  burr-clover.  It  was  still  early,  and  a  slight 
haze  gave  a  mirage  effect  that  was  very  deceiving.  A 
buzzard  appeared  like  a  roc,  and  a  distant  cow  loomed 
up  as  large  as  an  elephant.  Suddenly  something  else 
appeared  and  the  master  of  hounds  pulled  rein.  About 
three  hundred  feet  ahead,  standing  on  a  little  rise,  an 
object  that  looked  like  a  gigantic  dog  was  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  It  stood  half  turned,  its  big  ears  up. 
Then  the  hunt  moved  slowly  on,  creeping  up  to  it, 
while  it  stood  and  watched,  never  moving.  Soon  it 
resolved  itself  into  a  coyote  that  eyed  us  with  evident 
contempt,  nor  did  he  move  until  the  master  of  the 
hounds  spoke  to  the  pack  and  they  dashed  ahead. 


I06  Life  in  the  Open 

Greyhounds,  except  in  rare  cases,  have  no  scent,  at 
least  it  is  of  little  use ;  they  run  by  sight  only ;  and  as 
the  master  spoke  a  familiar  word  that  in  the  universal 
language  meant  game,  each  dog  raised  his  head  and 
looked  eagerly  forward.  Some  leaped  bodily  into  the 
air  and  glanced  around  quickly  ;  then,  all  seeing  the  dim 
form  ahead,  lengthened  out  and  rushed  on,  followed  by 
the  roar  of  pounding  hoofs,  the  clanking  of  snaffles  and 
chains.  There  is  nothing  quite  like  this  sudden  leap 
into  action  of  twenty  or  thirty  horses  as  eager  for  the 
sport  as  their  riders  ;  and  that  they  enjoy  it  every  wolf 
hunter  will  tell  you. 

The  coyote  held  his  post  for  a  second,  then,  seeing 
that  what  he  might  have  taken  for  a  lot  of  herders  or  a 
herd  of  cattle  were  coming  his  way,  he  swung  around, 
dropping  his  tail  and  head,  broke  into  an  easy  run,  and 
slipped  down  the  side  of  a  wash  where  the  white  sand 
of  a  little  arroyo  wound  away,  flanked  by  prickly  pear 
and  sage. 

Over  the  bank  went  the  dogs,  spreading  out  like  a 
fan  by  instinct,  followed  by  the  hunt,  the  knowing  horses 
settling  on  their  haunches  and  taking  the  slide  as  a 
toboggan,  then  lengthening  out  into  long  lines  in  the 
wash.  Suddenly  the  coyote  dashed  to  the  left,  up  an 
old  trail  he  and  his  ancestors  had  made,  and  regained 
the  mesa  ;  the  hunt  going  on  to  some  break,  and  losing 
by  this  clever  trick.  Once  up  on  the  plain  again,  the 
hounds  were  seen  well  bunched,  and  the  hunt  now 
stretched  out,  the  good  horses  taking  the  lead,  the  poor 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        I0; 

ones  already  discomfited,  as  it  had  been  literally  a  run- 
away from  the  start.  The  ground  was  hard  ;  it  had  not 
been  ploughed  for  several  years,  so  afforded  the  horses 
a  vantage  ground,  and  a  number  rapidly  closed  in  on 
the  hounds.  The  master,  mounted  on  a  fine  sorrel, 
"  Del  Sur,"  was  riding  directly  behind  the  dogs,  his  eye 
gleaming  with  pride  at  their  movements,  their  splendid 
action.  Near  him  were  four  or  five  riders,  careful  not 
to  overrun  even  a  slow  dog,  giving  them  the  field.  The 
pace  was  furious, — and  over  three  miles  of  level  country 
stretched  away  to  the  Mission  Hills,  the  home  of  the 
coyote.  He  must  be  run  down  before  they  are  reached. 
All  this  time,  or  since  the  coyote  has  dashed  out  of  the 
arroyo,  the  dogs  have  been  running  "  on  orders."  They 
have  lost  sight  of  the  game,  but  the  master  of  the 
hounds  has  the  wolf  in  his  eye,  a  gray  spot  shooting 
along  like  the  wind,  and  he  directs  them,  the  hounds 
with  wonderful  prescience  taking  the  direction  of  his 
horse  and  turning  as  he  shouts. 

The  hunt  is  now  stretched  out  over  half  a  mile.  The 
sun  has  emerged  from  vermilion  clouds,  and  is  flooding 
the  valley  of  San  Gabriel  with  light,  illumining  the  lofty 
snow-caps  with  ineffable  glory ;  while  all  along  the  range 
a  crimson  light  is  stealing,  and  deep  purple  shadows 
are  creeping  into  the  canons  like  weird  spectres  of  the 
night  that  fear  the  light  of  day. 

A  shout  from  the  master  of  the  hounds,  the  dogs 
sight  the  game,  and,  still  silent,  stretch  out,  working 
like  machines.  If  you  are  well  to  the  fore  you  will 


I08  Life  in  the  Open 

hear  his  exuberant  expressions  of  delight  —  "Well 
done,  Mouse";  "Good  Chiquita";  "Good  boy,  Ramon" 
—as  the  dogs  shoot  ahead.  The  ground  is  dangerous  ; 
there  are  badger  holes,  washes,  and  pitfalls  made  by 
squirrels,  out  of  which  owls  fly  as  we  rush  by.  You 
put  your  reliance  on  your  mustang,  and  watch  the  dogs 
and  that  spectral  gray  spot  far  ahead.  The  pace  is  in- 
creasing ;  the  dogs  are  warming  up.  Your  mustang  has 
the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  you  remember  to  have  read 
that  only  a  race-horse  can  keep  up  with  a  coyote ;  but 
this  pace  and  country  would  have  killed  a  well  trained 
racer.  Your  clever,  wiry  horse  leaps  every  hole ;  he 
knows  them  by  intuition  ;  and  takes  everything  as  it 
comes. 

Suddenly  the  dogs  make  a  sharp  turn  ;  the  coyote 
has  changed  his  pace  and  we  are  well  in.  Old  Ramon 
has  forced  the  turn.  How  they  run  !  like  machines, 
every  movement  telling  of  grace,  springs  of  steel,  and 
beauty  of  motion.  Across  a  rough  field  we  go, 
through  a.  high  mustard  patch,  then  out  into  a  narrow 
road.  The  best  horses  are  well  bunched  behind  the 
dogs,  and  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind  the  hunt  sweeps 
down  the  road,  gaining  on  the  coyote  at  every  leap. 
The  hounds  had  spread  out  and  looked  like  streaks  of 
dun  and  blue.  They  appeared  to  make  no  effort  to 
see,  but  that  they  were  pulling  up  on  the  ghostly  form 
was  more  than  evident.  Occasionally  I  saw  the  game 
turn  and  glance  over  his  shoulder,  then  with  his  big 
ears  well  back  he  shot  on  again  at  marvellous  speed. 


c 
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Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        I09 

The  dogs  relieved  each  other  in  running ;  one  would 
take  the  lead  for  a  few  moments,  then  drop  back  as 
another  surged  to  the  front,  the  effort  of  keeping  to 
the  fore  being  exhausting.  But  gradually  they  drew 
ahead.  Suddenly  the  coyote  swerved,  turned  sharp 
around,  and  dashed  down  into  a  narrow  wash  over 
which  we  went ;  some  caving  in  the  treacherous  earth  ; 
others  cleaving  it ;  the  dogs  piling  in,  then  on  franti- 
cally as  the  coyote  appeared  farther  down. 

The  trick  was  well  played,  the  game  gaining  two 
hundred  feet,  and  then  it  was  a  race  for  the  foothills. 
It  is  the  unexpected  that  happens.  Suddenly  a  barb- 
wire  fence  appeared.  In  some  marvellous  manner  the 
coyote  squirmed  beneath  it  and  sped  away  to  the  hills, 
while  the  hunt  lined  up  and  the  master  of  the  hounds 
leaped  to  the  ground  to  prevent  the  hounds  from  cut- 
ting themselves  in  their  desperate  attempt  to  follow. 
The  horses  had  made  a  splendid  run  of  three  or  four 
miles  at  racing  speed,  and  after  a  rest  the  fence  was 
opened  and  the  hunt  continued. 

The  coyote  by  this  time  was  in  the  Mission  Hills,  so 
the  riders  and  hounds  followed  up  one  of  the  caftons 
that  cut  through  the  range,  reaching  the  south  slope ; 
then,  in  pursuance  of  a  definite  plan,  spread  out  in  a 
long  line  and  mounted  the  steep  slopes,  using  the  sheep- 
trails  as  pathways.  The  hills  were  like  green  velvet 
mounds,  and  part  of  a  range  called  the  Puente  or  Mis- 
sion Hills,  running  parallel  with  the  Sierra  Madre,  and 
farther  down  growing  larger,  near  Santiago  Cafton,  there 


no 


Life  in  the  Open 


rising  into  a  snow-capped  mountain.  The  plan  was  to 
sweep  the  range  from  behind  and  force  the  coyote  down 
into  the  open  valley  again.  The  summit  reached,  the 
hunt  extended  along  the  divide  and  various  peaks  for  a 
fourth  of  a  mile,  and  as  the  coyote  had  not  been  started 
it  was  assumed  that  he  was  lying  in  some  little  cut  on 
the  north  slope  below. 

No  fairer  view  could  be  imagined.  Below,  the 
valley  of  San  Gabriel,  a  winter  garden  :  vineyards, 
groves  of  the  olive,  lemon,  and  orange,  great  squares 
of  eucalyptus,  groves  of  the  black,  live  oak,  with  lofty 
palms  here  and  there,  and  beyond,  as  a  background, 
the  snow-capped  Sierra  Madre.  , 

I  had  dismounted,  and  stood  wiping  the  dust  from 
the  face  of  one  of  my  own  hounds,  and  assuring  her 
of  my  complete  satisfaction  and  admiration,  when  my 
eyes  caught  a  dun-coloured  object,  the  coyote,  not  two 
hundred  feet  down  the  slope.  He  seemed  by  intuition 
to  know  that  I  had  seen  him,  as  he  stopped  ;  and  so  re- 
markable was  the  protective  resemblance,  so  happily  did 
he  melt  into  the  gray  of  the  wash  that  I  almost  lost 
sight  of  him.  He  seemed  to  dissolve  into  empty  air.  I 
whispered  the  situation  to  the  lady  by  my  side,  assisted 
her  into  the  saddle,  and  just  at  that  second,  before 
I  had  time  to  toss  the  reins  up  over  her  horse's  head, 
my  dog  and  horse  saw  the  coyote.  I  was  jerked  into 
the  saddle  in  a  miraculous  manner,  and  we  plunged 
down  the  hill.  A  second  before,  every  eye  was  riveted 
on  the  picture  that  spread  away  hundreds  of  square 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        m 

miles ;  now  with  a  clash  of  Mexican  bits  and  stirrups, 
shouts  passed  along  the  line,  and  the  hunt  was  on,  a 
wild  race  for  the  low  country. 

These  hills  were  steep  for  anything  but  a  Catalina 
sheep  pony,  and  the  normal,  sane  way  to  descend  was 
by  the  myriads  of  sheep  trails  that  had  worn  into  the 
hillside  like  the  cross  waves  on  a  sea  beach.  But  the 
coyote  disregarded  this  and  Fan  directly  down  the  pre- 
cipice, the  dogs  following,  and  then  those  whose  horses 
took  them. 

I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  slipping,  sliding,, 
almost  rolling  down  the  slope,  of  reaching  the  open  and 
leaping  a  yawning  ditch  into  which  a  hound  had  rolled ; 
of  seeing  close  behind  me  the  lady  with  no  reins ;  then 
we  rushed  down  into  a  ragged  wash,  up  the  opposite 
side,  and  there  was  Don  Coyote,  one  hundred  yards 
away,  running  for  his  life.  Our  horses  were  fresh,  and 
in  a  few  moments  we  were  on  the  flank  of  the  silent 
pack  that  swept  along  like  a  single  dog  —  a  terrible 
menace  to  the  dun-coloured  thing  growing  nearer  and 
nearer.  There  was  madness  in  the  race — the  master- 
ing of  space  by  the  dogs,  the  running  of  the  horses  that 
could  not  be  stopped,  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  a  desire 
to  take  desperate  chances  and  be  in  at  the  kill — which 
sent  the  blood  whirling  through  the  veins. 

The  coyote  ran  directly  over  the  back  track  and  we 
gained  every  second.  By  chance  and  good  fortune  my 
horse  carried  me  up  with  the  hounds,  and  for  the  last 
quarter  of  a  mile  we  raced  to  the  finish,  the  young  lady, 


II2  Life  in  the  Open 

the  master  of  the  hounds,  and  myself,  the  rest  of  the 
hunt  on  the  hillside  some  distance  away.  Up  to  this 
time  not  a  sound  had  come  from  the  pack,  and  as  we 
drew  nearer  I  leaned  down  and  spoke  to  my  own  dogs 
and  the  master  of  the  hounds  to  his.  We  called  on 
them  for  a  supreme  effort,  and  as  the  coyote  turned 
they  fell  upon  him,  and  our  horses  rounded  up  so  sud- 
denly that  I,  in  the  effort  to  dismount,  went  to  the  ground, 
but  luckily  upon  my  feet.  Pandemonium  broke  loose  : 
wild  cries  from  the  wolf  and  sharp  staccato  yelps  from 
the  hounds  that  now,  and  now  only,  gave  tongue,  while 
above  all  I  could  hear  the  sharp  click  of  the  coyote's  teeth. 
Thin-coated  or  short-haired  dogs  are  easily  disfigured  by 
a  coyote,  and  every  time  that  shining  row  of  teeth 
clicked,  a  good  dog  was  injured.  As  I  reached  the  ex- 
cited throng,  to  save  them  as  much  as  possible,  the  mas- 
ter of  the  hounds  plunged  into  the  roaring,  yelping  pack, 
and  seizing  the  wolf  by  the  throat,  lifted  him  high  in  air. 
It  was  heroic,  but  heroic  measures  were  needed ; 
and  the  next  moment  my  ordinarily  quiet  friend,  Dr.  J. 
de  Earth  Shorb.with  a  heavy  crop,  had  given  the  coyote 
his  quietus,  and  thrown  him  to  the  dogs.  The  coyote 
when  attacked  had  thrown  himself  on  his  back  against 
the  hillside  and  met  all  comers  with  a  resistance  born  of 
rage,  desperation,  and  despair,  and  several  dogs  were 
badly  cut  by  his  savage  snapping.  Dogs,  huntsmen,  and 
coyote  presented  a  sanguinary  appearance  as  the  rest 
of  the  hunt  came  in,  some,  nearly  ten  minutes  later,  to 
find  the  young  lady  wearing  the  brush. 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        n3 

Such  was  a  typical  run  across  country  of  the  Valley 
Hunt  in  the  old  days  ;  a  club  which  the  author  founded 
in  1886  and  which  is  still  in  existence,  though  the  cross- 
country riding  is  restricted  about  Pasadena  and  other 
towns,  due  to  the  settling  up  of  the  country.  Where, 
or  near  where,  the  coyote  was  killed,  is  a  forest  of 
eucalyptus,  and  houses  and  fences  stop  the  way  ;  but 
there  are  thousands  of  acres  beyond  the  towns  where 
identical  sport  can  be  had  to-day,  coyotes  coming  out 
of  the  range  every  night  and  yelping  singly  and  in 
concert. 

As  we  rode  out  that  morning  a  guest  from  one  of 
the  Eastern  fox-hunting  clubs  remarked  that  as  there 
were  no  fences  to  jump  the  sport  must  be  "  rather 
slow."  I  did  not  dissent,  but  some  time  after  the  kill 
our  guest  came  in,  and  after  congratulating  the  young 
lady  who  had  made  a  ride  which  for  daring,  I  venture 
to  say,  is  seldom  equalled  by  a  woman,  he  turned  to 
me  and,  laughing,  said,  "  I  take  it  all  back  about  the 
lack  of  excitement ;  but  that  run  was  n't  hunting,  it 
was  suicide.  I  never  would  have  believed  that  a  horse 
could  go  down  such  a  precipice  on  the  run." 

It  looked  dangerous  to  a  man  habituated  to  the 
beautiful  pastures  and  level  stretches  of  country  of  the 
East  where  bad  washes,  badger  and  squirrel  holes  are 
unknown  ;  but  to  a  California  horse  with  a  soup9on  of 
mustang  in  him,  a  horse  that  enjoyed  sport  and  knew 
all  about  it,  it  was  nothing,  and  even  this  was  a  baga- 
telle to  some  of  the  riding  I  have  seen  among  the  sheep 


I14  Life  in  the  Open 

herders  who  round  up  sheep  in  the  steep  caftons  of 
Santa  Catalina  and  Santa  Rosa  islands.  The  secret  was 
that  the  wiry  horses  were  as  sure-footed  as  goats,  even 
when  running  at  full  speed  along  the  side  of  some 
cafion. 

The  country  may  be  dangerous  for  indiscriminate 
hard  riding,  but  not  for  those  who  know  and  are  fond 
of  it ;  and  in  ten  or  more  years  of  cross-country  riding 
with  a  large  field,  the  Valley  Hunt  had  no  serious  acci- 
dents, and  few  of  any  kind.  One  is  worth  mentioning 
for  its  extraordinary  nature. 

The  hounds  were  chasing  a  coyote  near  this  place 
one  morning,  possibly  twenty  ladies  and  gentlemen  fol- 
lowing, nearly  all  going  at  full  speed ;  by  that  I  mean 
many  of  the  horses  were  almost  beyond  control.  It 
happened  that  I  was  with  the  master  of  the  hounds 
in  the  lead  when  we  turned  into  a  lane,  which  came  out 
on  to  a  new  road  which  we  supposed  led  to  open  coun- 
try ;  but  the  barb-wire  fence  fiend  had  arrived  unex- 
pectedly, and  we  came  on  to  his  handiwork  with  a  rush. 
I  saw  it  and  shouted  back,  and  the  hunt  succeeded  in 
stopping  their  horses ;  but  the  coyote  squeezed  under 
the  lower  wire,  not  ten  feet  from  us.  The  master  of 
the  hounds  could  not  stop  his  horse  which  struck  the 
fence,  which  bent  and  threw  him  completely  over.  I  had 
taken  the  left  rein  in  both  hands,  exerting  all  my  strength 
to  either  turn  my  horse  or  throw  him,  and  the  clever 
animal,  seeing  the  extraordinary  flight  of  his  companion 
through  the  air,  turned,  settled  back,  as  a  cow  horse  will 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        n5 

to  throw  a  steer,  and  stopped,  while  I  went  on,  landing  on 
my  feet  in  the  soft  earth  in  a  wash  from  which  I  crawled 
through  the  fence  to  lift  the  master  of  the  hounds,  who 
was  slightly  stunned  but  wholly  uninjured.  But  the 
horse — he  was  lying  on  his  back  with  a  double  turn  of 
barbed  wire  about  his  hoofs,  holding  him  in  the  serio- 
comic position  in  which  oxen  are  placed  for  shoeing  in 
Mexico.  He  was  immovable,  but,  remarkable  to  relate, 
almost  uninjured.  Some  one  hunted  up  a  blacksmith 
down  the  road,  who  came  and  filed  the  wire,  releasing 
the  animal,  which  had  but  a  few  scratches. 

He  had  turned  a  complete  somersault,  and  was 
locked  by  the  wire,  head  to  the  back  track.  Turning  a 
somersault  with  a  horse  is  a  unique  experience,  a  pas- 
time which  I  have  indulged  in  and  described  elsewhere, 
but  I  cannot  commend  it  even  in  Southern  California. 

The  coyote,  as  game,  still  holds  its  own  in  Southern 
California  and  the  south-west  in  general.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  menace  to  the  rancher,  hence  there  is  an 
excuse  for  the  quest  aside  from  sport ;  but  accepting 
the  latter  as  legitimate  I  can  conceive  of  no  pastime 
more  exhilarating  than  this.  An  essential,  at  least  to 
my  mind,  to  true  sport  for  large  game  is  a  sharing 
of  chances  with  it.  To  go  out  with  a  rifle  and  shoot 
the  coyote  would  be  to  descend  to  the  level  of  the  pot- 
hunter, but  to  hunt  one  of  the  swiftest  of  wild  animals 
in  the  open,  follow  it  on  horseback,  taking  the  country 
as  it  comes,  is  fair  and  honest  sport  to  be  commended ; 
a  sport  in  which  the  rider  takes  greater  chances  than  the 


n6  Life  in  the  Open 

game  which  often  escapes  and  leaves  a  worn-out  hunt 
and  pack  to  file  home,  while  he,  Don  Coyote,  watches 
from  some  elevated  point  with  grim  satisfaction,  as  some 
one  in  that  cavalcade  keeps  turkeys,  or  chickens,  and 
turn  about  is  fair  play. 

I  can  frequently  find  the  tracks  of  coyotes  in  the 
hills  within  rifle-shot  of  my  house  in  a  city  of  twenty 
thousand  inhabitants ;  hear  their  insane  laughing,  yelping 
cry  across  the  arroyo,  and  one  coyote  has  so  penetrat- 
ing, so  ventriloquistic  a  laugh  that  innocent  people  have 
been  terrified,  believing  they  were  menaced  by  a  pack  of 
wolves  ;  but  investigation  would  have  shown  that  all  the 
noise  came  from  one  small,  undersized  coyote  which  sat 
on  a  rock  baying  after  his  fashion  at  the  moon.  The 
coyote  is  a  wild  dog  that  breeds  with  domestic  dogs, 
and  the  big-eared  issue  is  often  seen  in  Mexican  camps 
in  the  outlying  districts.  Hounds  will  often  refuse 
to  attack  a  female  coyote.  I  once  chased  one  several 
miles  and  after  a  long  run  worked  my  hounds  to  within 
twenty  feet  of  the  game  and  then  called  on  them  to  go 
in.  They  closed  in,  and  my  best  hound  ran  alongside  the 
coyote— which  snapped  at  him — refusing  to  attack!  This 
was  entente  cordiale  with  a  vengeance.  I  whipped 
the  dogs  aside  and  finally  ran  the  animal  down  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  :  the  coyote  was  a  female.  There  was 
but  one  thing  to  do  ;  I  could  not  be  outdone  in  courtesy 
by  my  dog,  so  Donna  Coyote  and  I  parted  company. 

Southern  California,  or  the  best  part  of  it,  consists 
of  small  valleys  and  foothill  mesas,  intersected  every- 


B 


Following  the  Lowland  Wolf        II7 

where  or  surrounded  by  hills  and  mountains,  down  the 
sides  of  which  lead  washes  and  runways  from  a  foot  to 
twenty  feet  deep.  The  coyote  lives  in  the  foothills  and 
on  the  slopes.  Here  he  has  a  den  weathered  out  per- 
haps by  the  wind ;  here  he  lives  during  the  day,  looking 
down  into  the  rich  valleys  and  the  haunts  of  men.  As 
night  conies  on,  and  the  shadows  deepen  and  take  on 
purple  hues,  when  the  heavy  sea  fog  comes  in  along 
the  Santa  Monica  range,  or  up  the  bed  of  the  Santa 
Ana,  he  steals  down  the  cafton  and  follows  the  shining 
sands  out  into  the  valley,  where  he  takes  up  the  scent 
of  hares,  and  with  his  mate  or  mates  runs  them  down  ; 
even  a  melon  patch  is  game  for  him.  He  stands  not  on 
the  order  of  going,  but  slinks  about  like  a  ghost ;  now 
sending  out  peals  of  demoniac  yelping  laughter  from  an 
orange  grove,  then  heard  half  a  mile  away,  setting  the 
dogs  of  towns  and  villages  barking  and  the  cocks  to 
crowing.  In  the  morning  I  have  visited  the  runs,  the 
little  and  big  washes  that  were  smooth  the  night  before, 
and  in  the  round  dog-like  footprints  have  read  the  story 
of  the  night,  the  coming  and  going  of  not  only  coyotes, 
but  wildcats  and  raccoons.  The  coyotes  come  out  into 
the  open  at  night,  in  cultivated  places,  returning  at 
or  before  sunrise,  and  in  hunting  them  it  is  well  to 
begin  at  some  foothill  country,  line  up  the  hunt,  and 
sweep  out  into  the  valley  where  some  belated  foraging 
coyote  may  be  met  trotting  up  the  white  sandy  wash 
toward  home.  The  Mission  Hill  range,  which  forms 
the  boundary  of  the  San  Gabriel  Valley  to  the  south,  is 


,,8  Life  in  the  Open 

the  home  of  the  coyote,  especially  where  it  reaches  to 
the  south  and  east  and  approaches  Mount  Santiago  ;  the 
coyotes  having  the  San  Gabriel,  Pomona,  and  other 
valleys  on  one  side,  and  the  level  country  reaching 
down  to  the  Pacific  on  the  other.  Here,  twenty  miles 
from  Santa  Ana,  the  Santiago  Hunting  Club  holds 
forth,  and  on  the  San  Gabriel  side  one  may  hear  the 
musical  baying  of  the  hounds  of  the  Maryland  Hunt 
Club  of  Pasadena. 

Orange  County  presents  a  very  attractive  hunting 
country,  with  an  abundance  of  game,  long  reaches  of 
well-wooded  and  sloping  lands  covered  with  live  oaks, 
picturesque  cafions  filled  with  trees — all  illustrating  the 
charm  of  life  in  the  open.  Many  of  the  hunts  of  this 
club  cover  the  entire  day,  and  at  night  they  come  into 
the  big  camp  with  coyotes,  foxes,  and  wildcats  hanging 
from  the  saddles. 

The  coyote  has  a  wide  geographical  range,  from 
Costa  Rica  to  Athabasca,  and  from  the  central  Mis- 
sissippi Valley  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  not  being  found  on 
the  islands.  On  this  vast  territory  about  twelve  species 
have  been  recognised,  and  all  over  California  they  afford 
exciting  and  novel  sport. 


Chapter  VIII 

Shore    and   Other   Birds 

DESPITE  the  monotony  of  California  beaches, 
the  interminable  wastes  of  sand  and  shifting 
sand  dunes,  they  have  a  charm  in  their  animal 
life.     Near  Santa  Monica  the  mountains  dip  into  the 
sea,    and   there  rocks   are   seen,    and   again   at    Point 
Firmin ;    but    from  here  until   you  reach  the  Laguna 
country,  or  below  Newport,  the  long  lines  of  white  sand 
hold  for  miles,  against  which  the  sea  pounds,  tossing 
the  spume  high  in  air  to  be  carried  inland  over  fields  of 
flowers. 

The  beach  is  worn  by  the  wind  into  marvellous 
shapes  and  is  ever  changing.  Look  at  it  in  early  morn- 
ing before  the  west  wind  rises  ;  its  surface  is  a  biological 
record  of  the  night.  It  is  covered  with  footprints  and 
mystic  signs.  Crabs  have  crossed  it ;  snails  have  left  a 
silvery  trail  ;  sea  birds  have  stopped  here,  and  this 
strange  mark  is  the  flipping  of  the  wings  of  a  laugh- 
ing gull  as  it  flew  along  just  above  it.  Throngs  of 
shore  birds  seem  to  have  paraded  along  the  sands,  and 


122 


Life  in  the  Open 


these  big  impressions  have  been  made  by  a  vagrant  band 
of  sea  lions  that  passed  the  night  here  and  went  to  sea 
at  early  morn. 

But  wait  until  the  night  wind  drops  and  the  great 
furnace  of  the  desert  begins  to  call  the  wind ;  every 
trace  and  footprint  of  the  night  is  effaced.  Little  rivers 
of  sand  come  running  along  the  surface,  filling  every 
crevice,  climbing  up  against  the  ice  plant  and  verbena, 
and  threatening  the  white  flowers  that  lie  along  the 
sand.  The  pink  faces  of  the  shore  verbena  almost  dis- 
appear as  the  wind  rises ;  and  so  the  story  of  the  night 
passes  and  a  new  one  is  told. 

The  beach  has  a  constant  following  of  shore  birds. 
Laughing  gulls  parade  it,  acting  as  scavengers,  with 
gulls  of  several  kinds  ;  just  above  is  the  least  tern,  eying 
us  furtively,  a  delicate,  beautiful  creature  like  a  spirit 
of  the  sand.  Here  I  have  found  its  nest  along  the  dunes, 
and  at  one  place,  near  Laguna,  the  bird  had  collected 
the  richly  coloured  shells  of  the  Donax,  with  which  it 
formed  a  pavement  and  deposited  its  eggs  upon  it. 

The  California  gull,  the  royal  tern,  Foster's  tern, 
and  many  more  catch  the  discerning  eye  of  the  stroller  ; 
and  as  he  walks  along  the  sands  there  is  a  constantly  ris- 
ing silvery  throng  of  small  beach  birds  that  fly  out  a  few 
feet  and  seem  to  become  a  part  of  the  foam  and  disap- 
pear, to  as  suddenly  come  in  and  alight ;  running  along 
and  dotting  the  soft  yielding  sands  with  their  footprints. 

Lying  on  the  dunes  near  a  point,  one  may  see  the 
American  avocet,  the  black-necked  stilt,  and  the  marbled 


Shore  and  Other  Birds 

godwit ;  and  over  on  the  laguna  side,  Wilson's  snipe 
and  the  long-billed  dowitcher.  The  great  flock  that 
comes  whirling  along  between  the  breakers  and  the 
shore,  gleaming  like  silver,  disappearing  as  it  turns,  is 
the  western  sandpiper.  As  they  drop  down,  each  bird 
runs  along  the  beach  a  few  steps,  with  wings  lifted,  as 
though  posing  for  its  picture  reflected  in  the  water. 
Here  are  the  sanderling  and  the  marbled  godwit,  stand- 
ing by  a  mass  of  dead  kelp ;  the  western  willet  goes 
whirling  by  ;  and  among  others  you  may  recognise  the 
tattler, spotted  sandpiper, black  turnstone,and  several  fine 
plovers  ;  not  all  seen  in  one  day,  perhaps,  but  adding  to 
the  attractions  of  some  wandering  trip  along-shore. 

At  San  Clemente,  Santa  Catalina,  and  other  islands 
you  may  see  a  variety  of  sea  birds,  attractive  if  not 
game, — those  which  affect  the  island  rocks  and  have  no 
interest  in  the  sands. 

The  best  places  for  shore  birds  are  where  there  are 
long  stretches  of  beach  and  sand,  behind  which  are 
pools  and  sea  swamps,  which  afford  mud  flats  for  such 
birds  to  feed  upon.  Here  one  may  see  the  great  blue 
heron,  the  least  bittern,  and  at  times,  farther  in,  the 
wood  ibis,  that  has  a  penchant  for  barley  fields  and  roll- 
ing mesas  near  the  sea. 

The  caftons  that  reach  away  from  the  ocean  afford 
fascinating  nooks  and  corners  for  birds  of  many  kinds,  as 
here  the  valley  quail  comes  almost  to  the  beach ;  and 
around  Santa  Monica  and  the  Malibu  I  have  seen  the 
great  California  vulture  or  condor,  that  nests  in  this 


I24  Life  in  the  Open 

range,  and  even  as  this  is  written  the  daily  papers 
picture  a  renegade  with  his  game,  shot  in  this  range 
near  the  sea,  a  splendid  vulture,  one  of  the  last  of  the 
tribe,  doubtless,  in  Southern  California.  In  these  caflons 
we  see  great  flocks  of  mourning  doves  that  flutter  along 
the  sands  with  musical  flight,  while  at  intervals  bands  of 
splendid  band-tailed  pigeons  come  down  to  breathe  the 
soft  air  of  the  sea  as  it  flows  up  the  caftons. 

If  the  sportsman  wishes  this  game  he  should  watch 
the  mountains,  and  after  a  heavy  snow-storm,  when  they 
are  well  covered  down  to  the  three-thousand-foot  level, 
go  to  the  great  open  ranches  and  fields  at  the  base  of 
the  range,  where  he  will  see  this  fine  pigeon,  evidently 
driven  out  of  the  range  by  the  snow.  I  have  seen  hun- 
dreds on  the  Hastings  ranch,  in  the  San  Gabriel  Valley, 
at  such  a  time,  and  doubtless  many  such  flocks  could 
have  been  found  far  down  the  range. 

Camping  in  the  mouth  of  some  big  canon,  as  the 
one  at  Santa  Monica,  Laguna,  or  San  Juan,  affords  the 
lover  of  nature  varied  opportunities.  A  few  steps  up 
the  carton  you  find  sycamores,  cottonwoods,  and  live 
oaks  in  sight  of  the  sea.  In  the  chaparral  are  hum- 
ming-birds ;  bright-eyed  lizards  glance  at  you  from 
every  stone  pile,  and  the  sly  gopher  pushes  up  his 
mounds  as  you  look  and  ventures  out  of  his  hole  per- 
haps to  show  you  how  he  can  run  back  and  hit  it,  tail 
first.  The  fields  are  filled  with  ground  squirrels  that 
only  take  to  trees  in  dire  necessity  ;  and  at  night  a  little 
leaping  jerboa-like  creature  comes  prowling  about,  while 


Shore  and  Other  Birds  I25 

the  wood-rat  boldly  ventures  into  camp  or  lodge  and 
robs  it  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  In  almost  any  cafton 
you  may  find  the  nest  of  this  fascinating  little  creature  ; 
a  mass  of  twigs  and  dead  leaves,  generally  on  the 
ground,  but  at  times  in  trees.  When  chased  and  put 
to  flight,  the  rat,  which  bears  a  resemblance  to  the 
common  rat,  takes  to  the  trees,  and  leaps  from  one  to 
another  with  perfect  ease.  A  wood-rat  which  I  kept  as 
a  tentative  pet  for  a  while  would  leap  from  a  table  to 
my  desk,  a  distance  of  four  feet,  and  a  more  inquisitive 
and  thieving  creature  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 
Its  robberies  were  bare-faced  and  open,  and  as  I  watched 
it  one  day  it  took  a  cigar  from  a  box  and  hid  it,  then 
cut  off  a  red  rose  larger  than  itself  and  pushed  it  into 
the  hiding-place  after  the  cigar. 

On  the  beach  near  the  canon  you  may  see  the  print 
of  the  raccoon,  and  possibly  the  clever  animal  himself. 
In  fox-hunting  the  dogs  occasionally  catch  them. 

At  night  along  the  sands  may  be  seen  at  the  mouth 
of  the  canon  a  beautiful  little  raccoon-like  creature,  the 
bassaris,  with  a  bushy  ringed  tail  and  large  expressive 
eyes.  There  are  numbers  of  bats — one  very  large, — a 
great  variety  of  small  birds — thrushes,  robins,  orioles, 
kinglets,  wrens,  warblers,  swallows,  ravens,  sparrows,— 
an  endless  procession  that  fill  the  cafions  with  song, 
while  the  ranches  with  their  orchards  attract  other  and 
different  birds.  If  game  is  hard  to  find  along-shore,  there 
is  the  compensation  in  a  variety  of  beautiful  forms 
always  in  sight. 


or/i 


Chapter  IX 

The     Bighorn 


YOU  may  at  least  look  at  bighorn  sheep  in  Cali- 
fornia, and  in  attaining  the  glance  you  will 
climb  some  of  the  highest  slopes  of  the 
southern  Sierras.  There  is  a  band  of  bighorn  sheep 
on  the  slopes  of  Mount  San  Antonio  unless  they 
have  been  killed  recently ;  and  others  have  been  re- 
ported on  Grayback  or  Grizzly  peak,  on  San  Jacinto, 
or  other  lofty  summits  from  eight  to  eleven  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea.  But  they  are  protected  by  law,  and, 
as  I  have  suggested,  can  only  be  looked  at  or  photo- 
graphed, which,  after  all,  is  the  most  satisfactory  method 
of  hunting  game  that  every  intelligent  American  knows 
is  being  exterminated. 

If  the  bighorn  cannot  be  had  in  Southern  Califor- 
nia it  can  be  found  over  the  line  on  the  peninsula,  not 
many  miles  below  San  Diego  or  Coronado,  where  one 
may  take  the  steamer  for  Ensenada  and  there  procure 
guide  and  pack  train  for  the  lofty  mountains  which  form 

129 


130 


Life  in  the  Open 


the  spinal  column  of  the  country  between  the  Pacific  and 
the  Gulf  of  California. 

Lower  California  is  but  an  extension  of  Southern 
California,  growing  naturally  warmer  as  one  proceeds 
south ;  as  Agassiz  said  when  he  visited  it  on  the 
Hassler  Expedition,  "  It  has  an  almost  perfect  climate 
during  the  winter,  being  similar  to  that  of  Southern 
California,  only  milder." 

The  peninsula  is  a  narrow,  mountainous  strip  about 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  miles  long,  from  thirty  to 
seventy  miles  wide.  For  the  convenience  of  the  sports- 
man it  can  be  divided  into  three  areas  :  one  on  the  north 
abutting  Southern  California,  two  hundred  miles  long,  is 
a  continuation  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  a  fine  range  rising 
from  five  to  ten  thousand  feet  in  air,  on  which  one 
can  stand  and  see  the  Pacific  and  the  Gulf  of  California 
in  one  sweeping  glance.  These  mountains  abound  in 
fine  pine  forests  and  form  the  source  of  numerous 
springs  and  small  rivers,  and  in  the  lower  region  are 
some  beautiful  valleys  where  grazing  and  ranching  are 
carried  on.  One  of  the  most  attractive  is  the  Maneadero 
Valley,  not  far  from  Ensenada.  Here  one  may  see 
typical  California  ranches  of  the  old  days.  Beyond 
this  there  is  a  central  region,  made  up  of  table-lands 
and  flat  ridges,  with  mountains  isolated  and  in  groups, 
running  up  to  four  or  five  thousand  feet.  This  extends 
for  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  which  brings  us  to 
what  Gabb  calls  the  third  province,  extending  one  hun- 
dred miles  from  Cape  St.  Lucas  to  La  Paz  and  beyond 


The  Bighorn  I3I 

to  the  cape,  characterised  by  great  granite  mountains 
from  four  to  five  thousand  feet  in  height,  with  deep  and 
often  fertile  valleys. 

It  is  with  the  northern  province  that  the  sportsman 
has  to  do,  and  the  splendid  mountains,  wild  and  majestic, 
that  form  the  backbone  of  the  peninsula  here,  afford  some 
of  the  best  bighorn  shooting  in  America  to-day,  while  in 
the  lowlands  are  deer,  antelope,  and  a  variety  of  small 
game.  All  the  ranges,  seemingly  culminating  in  the  fine 
peak  of  San  Pedro  de  Martyr,  afford  game  of  some  kind. 

The  bighorn  sheep  may  be  considered  one  of  the 
forms  that  is  gradually  growing  scarcer  and  which  ulti- 
mately will  disappear.  When  I  reached  Southern  Cali- 
fornia in  1885,  hunting  it  was  considered  one  of  the 
sports  of  the  country,  and  I  recall  seeing  two  fine  heads 
brought  into  Pasadena  about  1887,  in  which  year  several 
grizzlies  were  killed  in  the  mountains.  The  bighorns 
were  killed  on  the  north  slope  of  San  Antonio,  about 
fifty  miles  from  the  city  of  Los  Angeles,  where  the 
remnant  of  the  herd  still  lives,  protected  by  the  game 
laws  of  the  State. 

The  animal  is  a  splendid  figure,  with  its  enormous 
horns,  corrugated,  scarred,  and  turned  back,  bending 
down  and  pointing  to  the  front  again.  It  ranges  from 
the  mountains  of  Mexico  north  to  Alaska,  and  is  one  of 
the  splendid  game  animals  of  America  that  is  doomed 
to  pass  over  the  divide  sooner  or  later. 

I  was  once  on  very  good  terms  with  a  tame  ram  in 
Colorado,  an  old-timer  having  one  in  a  small  corral 


Life  in  the  Open 

cheek  by  jowl  with  a  mountain  lion,  and  I  spent  much 
time  in  watching  both.  The  result  of  my  observation 
led  me  to  believe  that  in  a  fair  fight  the  ram  would  win, 
but  if  it  were  a  case  of  sneaking  up  in  the  dark,  or 
crawling  over  a  cliff  to  drop  on  the  game  unawares, 
the  mountain  lion  would  be  the  winner.  The  bighorn 
certainly  scented  the  lion,  as  it  appeared  to  be  in  a  con- 
stant "  state  of  mind,"  which  was  evinced  by  occasionally 
backing  off  and  striking  the  corral  on  the  mountain  lion 
side  with  a  force  suggestive  of  sudden  death  and  the 
breaking  in  of  ribs. 

What  a  splendid  animal  he  was,  and  what  a  coward 
was  the  mountain  lion !  Yet  I  may  do  the  latter  in- 
justice, though  he  started  as  though  he  had  been  hit 
whenever  the  ram  struck  his  partition  and  jarred  the 
very  earth. 

A  fine  animal  is  the  mountain  sheep.  He  is  wild 
and  loves  the  wild  places.  His  home  is  on  the  lofty, 
wind-swept  crags  of  high  mountains.  As  I  write,  I  can 
look  over  the  tops  of  palms  and  orange  trees  in  my 
garden  and  see  his  home — the  bare,  pallid  rocks  that 
form  the  summit  of  San  Antonio,  two  miles  or  more 
above  the  sea.  The  gentle  wind  in  the  valley  of  the 
San  Gabriel  is  barely  sufficient  to  arouse  the  music  of 
the  pine  needles,  yet  up  the  north  slope  of  San  Antonio 
I  can  sometimes  see  a  mass  of  snow  rolling  on,  like  a 
great  white  diaphanous  cloud,  that  rises  higher  and 
higher,  a  wraith  of  the  mountains,  telling  of  the  rigours 
of  winter  in  this  home  of  the  mountain  sheep. 


The  Bighorn 

There  is  something  in  the  personality  of  the  animal 
which  attracts  one,  and  I  well  remember  the  old  cow- 
man who  owned  the  Colorado  bighorn  and  who  in- 
tended '  sending  him  to  some  zoological  garden  in  Ger- 
many. "  There  's  game  for  you,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 
"  The  big  sheep  is  every  inch  an  aristocrat ;  he  may  be 
a  sheep,  but  he  possesses  the  attributes  of  goat,  ante- 
lope, and  elk,  so  far  as  game  is  concerned." 

The  bighorn  stands  about  three  feet  in  height  at 
the  shoulders,  and  in  his  best  condition  weighs  three 
hundred  odd  pounds,  and  he  has  a  coat  of  various 
shades  and  tints.  That  of  the  San  Antonio  specimens 
I  have  seen,  Ovis  canadensis,  was  a  very  light  brown 
and  drab,  a  colour  that  so  resembled  the  great  cliffs  and 
washes  in  which  it  was  found  that,  when  standing  still, 
it  appeared  to  melt  and  become  a  part  of  the  basic 
slopes  of  its  home. 

The  crowning  glory  of  the  animal  is  its  horns, 
which  are  massive,  deeply  corrugated,  flat,  and  ranging 
from  thirty  to  fifty-two  inches  in  length  and  from  thir- 
teen to  eighteen  inches  in  circumference.  There  is 
something  about  these  massive  head  ornaments  which 
stamps  the  mountain  sheep  as  the  aristocrat  of  his 
kind. 

I  have  never  hunted  the  sheep  in  Lower  California 
but  am  informed  by  Mr.  Grosvenor  Wotkyns  and  Mr. 
Nordhoff,  who  has  a  ranch  below  Ensenada,  that  good 
sport  can  be  found  there  in  the  upper  regions  of  the 
southern  Sierras,  which  are  so  accessible  that  the 


I34  Life  in  the  Open 

localities  most  frequented  by  this  splendid  game  can 
be  reached  on  horseback,  which  is  not  often  the  case 
farther  north.  Once  in  this  Lower  California  hunting 
ground,  the  sportsman  will  find  himself  on  the  very 
backbone  of  the  continent,  and  at  a  glance  can  sweep 
the  Pacific,  the  mountain  ranges,  the  Gulf  of  California, 
and  the  vast  desert  beyond,  and  here,  among  scenes  of 
chaos  and  desolation,  is  the  home  of  the  mountain 
sheep,  that  is  sometimes  followed  from  peak  to  peak, 
over  countless  divides,  and  into  deep  caftons  before  it 
is  shot 

The  sheep  are  so  common  that  a  hunt  is  rarely 
barren,  and  several  good  pairs  of  horns  will  repay  the 
not  difficult  trip  into  this  part  of  Mexico. 


Chapter  X 

The  Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion 

CAMPING  out  or  living  in  the  Sierra  Madre  in 
a  rainy  winter  is  not  without  charm  and 
excitement.  To  look  at  the  placid  and  well- 
wooded  canon  that  cuts  off  Las  Cacitas  from  the  mesa 
below  in  summer,  one  would  never  suspect  the  volume 
of  water  which  often  comes  foaming  down  during  the 
occasional  winter  rains.  The  river  course  is  now  dry ; 
the  summer  sun  has  driven  the  water  far  below  the  sur- 
face, where  it  sweeps  slowly  along,  the  underground  river 
that  has  given  fame  to  Southern  California.  Yet  I  have 
been  shut  in  by  floods  on  this  spur  of  the  mountains  for 
three  days,  and  kept  awake  at  night  not  by  the  roar  of 
the  waters,  but  by  the  deep,  menacing  sound  of  boulders 
rolling  down  the  bed  of  the  stream  in  a  neighbouring 
canon. 

All  these  canons,  the  arteries  of  the  Sierra  Madre, 
have  not  been  made  by  a  steady,  regulated  wear  and 
tear,  but  by  rushes  of  water,  cloudbursts  that  suddenly 
wipe  out  the  fixtures  of  years,  carrying  away  whole 

137 


,3g  Life  in  the  Open 

mountain-sides,  changing  the  face  of  the  country,  wash- 
ing out  more  rocks  and  de'bris  than  the  wear  of  five 
normal  years  would  accomplish.  The  cafions  are  a 
feature  of  the  country.  The  little  stream  foams  down 
among  the  rocks  and  boulders  capriciously.  In  the 
upper  range  there  is  a  series  of  rocky  basins,  the  water 
flowing  from  one  to  another  over  falls  of  deep  green 
moss,  while  the  face  of  the  rock  is  covered  with  masses 
of  maidenhair  ferns.  Lower  down,  the  stream  flows 
over  great  boulders,  leaping  from  one  to  the  other,  then 
out  into  long,  pleasant  reaches,  to  finally  break  away 
from  the  mountains  and  go  swirling  musically  on  to  the 
sea. 

In  the  cafion  I  have  in  mind  I  knew  several  men  who 
preferred  its  solitudes.  One  day  one  came  up  to  our 
camp,  which  was  on  a  spur  of  the  range,  and  said  that 
a  mountain  lion  had  killed  his  burro  and  eaten  part  of 
it  during  the  night,  and  he  was  afraid  that  it  would  re- 
turn. A  trip  to  the  cafion  camp,  a  rifle-shot  away, 
showed  the  evidence  of  guilt :  a  small  burro  had  been 
stricken  down  and  torn  and  lacerated.  Several  hunters 
agreed  to  stay  at  the  camp  and  see  if  the  lion  returned, 
but  it  did  not,  though  its  track  was  seen  in  various 
places,  up  and  down  the  stream,  testifying  to  its  size. 
Not  long  after  I  was  notified  that  a  lion  had  been  seen 
near  the  old  Mission  of  San  Gabriel,  and  one  morning  I 
joined  the  hounds  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  pile  and 
followed  them  over  ten  or  fifteen  miles  of  territory. 

Some   Mexicans   reported  that  they  had  seen  the 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion        139 

lion  creeping  along  at  dusk.  The  next  morning  its 
tracks  were  found  and  the  hounds  readily  picked  them 
up  near  the  old  Mission  tuna  hedge,  a  mile  to  the  east, 
but  it  was  a  forlorn  hope.  The  country  here  was  a 
mesa,  without  trees,  overlooking  a  large  vineyard  some 
five  feet  lower,  and  every  object  could  be  seen  for  miles. 
The  dogs  took  the  trail  and  followed  it  down  across 
country  in  the  direction  of  Puente,  where  they  lost  it  in 
the  lowlands ;  and  it  was  believed  that  the  lion  had 
made  its  way  into  the  Puente  Hills,  crossing  the  entire 
San  Gabriel  Valley  diagonally,  so  reaching  the  wild 
country  about  Mount  Santiago. 

In  many  of  the  mountain  towns  or  those  near  the 
canons,  stories  are  current  relating  to  the  mountain  lion, 
but  the  animal  is  rarely  seen.  One  was  killed  near  the 
Raymond  Hotel  in  1898,  and  another  was  seen  by  a 
hunter  on  the  old  Mount  Wilson  trail,  the  animal  slink- 
ing off  into  the  chaparral.  Doubtless  a  good  pack  of 
hounds  taken  up  into  the  mountains  near  Barley  Flats, 
or  at  the  extreme  head  of  the  San  Gabriel,  would  result 
in  the  finding  of  lions,  but  there  are  so  few  seen  or  heard 
of  that  hunting  is  rarely  attempted.  In  the  less  fre- 
quented parts  of  the  country,  in  the  region  back  of  the 
Santa  Ynez,  and  between  San  Jacinto  and  the  Mexican 
line,  the  deep  caflons  doubtless  afford  a  home  for  many 
lions  that  are  only  occasionally  heard  of  or  seen. 

The  mountain  lion  is  an  interesting  cat  on  account 
of  its  wide  geographical  range.  My  guide,  years  ago, 
entertained  me  with  stories  of  the  panthers  he  had  seen 


i4o  Life  in  the  Open 

in  the  Adirondacks,  and  I  heard  of  the  animal  in  Ver- 
mont hills  near  Lincoln  as  the  catamount.  In  Florida 
the  camp  of  a  party  of  acquaintances  was  robbed  by  a 
cougar  that  took  a  pig,  and  though  they  watched  all 
night  the  animal  leaped  into  the  pen  and  secured  an- 
other pig,  making  off  with  the  game  amid  a  fusillade 
from  the  guns  of  a  number  of  frightened  negro  servants. 
This  cougar  swam  across  a  narrow  channel  to  reach  the 
key,  or  island.  In  South  America,  from  Patagonia  to 
Brazil,  they  will  tell  you  of  the  puma  and  its  ravages. 
I  saw  it  first  in  the  Rockies  of  Colorado,  and  the  same 
animal  appears  on  the  coast  from  the  far  north,  where  it 
is  known  as  the  cougar,  down  to  Southern  California, 
where  it  is  the  mountain  lion,  and  periodically  appears, 
preying  upon  small  animals,  but  mainly  upon  the  deer, 
which  in  all  regions  appears  to  be  the  game  of  its  choice. 

In  appearance  the  lion  is  a  tawny  cat  bearing  some 
resemblance  to  an  Asiatic  lioness,  but  much  smaller  :  a 
typical  cat,  big,  long  of  limb,  muscular  and  beautiful. 
But  here  praise  ends,  as  rarely  will  a  mountain  lion  face 
a  man,  being  by  nature  a  cowardly  animal,  creeping 
upon  its  prey,  and  often  intimidated  by  a  single  dog 
and  hunter. 

The  big  cat  kills  its  game  by  stealing  upon  it, generally 
attempting,  in  the  case  of  deer,  to  approach  from  above, 
hurling  itself  from  an  eminence  upon  the  black-tailed  or 
mule  deer.  In  Arizona,  California,  New  Mexico,  and 
Montana  doubtless  many  more  deer  are  killed  by  mount- 
ain lions  than  by  hunters.  In  some  parts  of  Arizona 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion         I4i 

the  mountain  lions  are  so  common,  so  much  a  menace 
to  stock,  that  the  cattlemen  frequently  combine  and  hunt 
them  down  with  dogs.  As  a  rule,  the  more  difficult  an 
animal  is  to  take,  the  more  eager  hunters  are  to  secure 
it,  and  I  confess  to  many  a  ride  up  deep  canons  and  over 
narrow  trails  through  the  chaparral  hoping  to  meet  the 
lion  of  the  mountain,  and  what  I  know  of  the  mountains, 
their  delights  and  pleasures,  is  mainly  due  to  these  quests 
for  mountain  lion  and  other  game.  I  conceive,  then, 
that  the  puma,  call  him  what  you  will,  is  as  good  an 
excuse,  perhaps  better  than  any  other,  to  induce  the 
sport-loving  reader  to  enter  and  know  the  Sierra  Madre. 
He  is  there,  but  there  is  a  more  certain  and  definite 
game  to  be  had  :  the  impression  and  memory  of  mount- 
ain life,  the  personality  and  individuality  of  the  mountains, 
that  have  peculiar  charms  and  beauties  of  their  own. 

Mountain  climbing  is  a  sport,  a  pastime,  a  science,  if 
you  will,  a  science  blending  with  the  gentle  arts  and 
graces,  as  your  real  mountaineer  is  a  poet ;  so  I  com- 
mend hunting  the  mountain  lion  in  the  Sierra  Madre. 
No  more  fascinating  hunting-ground  can  be  found  in  the 
south  than  the  great  range,  from  the  head  of  the  Santa 
Ynez  to  San  Jacinto.  In  this  restricted  area  are  some 
of  the  most  interesting  peaks  in  America. 

These  mountains  face  the  Colorado  desert  on  the 
east,  one  of  the  most  desolate  places  on  earth,  at 
times  a  furnace  :  the  hot  air  pouring  upward  in  such 
volume  that  it  leaves  a  pseudo  vacuum,  to  fill  which, 
the  air  rushes  in  from  the  ocean,  explaining  the 


142  Life  in  the  Open 

steady  breeze  which  continues  in  Southern  Califor- 
nia all  summer.  Mount  San  Jacinto  has  fine  forests 
and  streams  and  long,  level  stretches  abounding  in 
pines  ;  regions  that  are  covered  with  snow  in  winter  and 
are  gardens  in  summer.  Here  are  numerous  camps, 
reached  by  good  trails  and  waggon  roads — inviting 
to  the  lover  of  sport  and  camp  life.  The  altitude  is 
from  five  thousand  to  seven,  eight,  or  even  ten  thou- 
sand feet,  and  the  facilitiess  are  excellent.  In  the  range 
opposite  Los  Angeles  there  are  many  good  trails  into 
the  mountains.  The  Arroyo  Seco  is  particularly  avail- 
able, a  deep,  well-wooded  cafton,  which  can  be  followed 
into  the  range  for  twenty  or  more  miles.  In  the  canon 
is  a  fine  running  stream  that  has  been  restocked  with 
trout,  and  which  will  soon  be  open  to  the  public.  In 
the  San  Gabriel  Valley,  cafions  open  at  short  intervals 
for  miles,  many  being  famous  for  their  beauty.  Near 
Pasadena  are  the  Arroyo  Seco,  Milliard,  Las  Flores, 
Eaton,  and  San  Gabriel  canons. 

The  Mount  Lowe  elevated  road  takes  one  into 
the  upper  range  to  Alpine  Tavern.  Not  far  away,  at 
Eaton's  Caflon,  is  the  beginning  of  the  Mount  Wilson 
trail,  which,  by  an  easy  grade,  takes  the  mountaineer  up 
to  Mount  Wilson,  where  Martin's  camp  is  stationed 
in  a  saddle  just  below  the  solar  observatory  of  the 
Carnegie  Institute,  under  charge  of  Professor  George 
E.  Hale.  The  pagoda-like  observatory  looks  down 
into  a  deep  canon,  a  gulch  of  profound  depths,  the 
cafton  of  the  San  Gabriel  River,  one  of  the  largest  in  the 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion        143 

range.  On  the  rushing  trout  stream  are  several  camps, 
as  Fellow's,  where  lovers  of  mountain  life  and  scenery 
make  their  home  ;  and  all  along  this  stream  private  camps 
are  found,  outfitting  in  the  towns  of  the  vicinity  or  in 
Los  Angeles,  where  there  are  houses  which  make  a 
business  of  equipping  hunting  camps,  providing  every- 
thing but  the  game.  The  heart  of  the  San  Jacinto 
range  is  reached  from  Los  Angeles  on  the  Sante  Fe 
road  to  Hemet,  from  which  a  stage  takes  one  up  the 
mountain  trail,  a  mile  above  the  sea,  to  Idlewild,  where 
hotel,  cottage,  tent,  or  spreading  tree  can  be  had,  trained 
mountain  horses,  and  one  of  the  most  attractive  regions 
to  use  as  a  base  when  mountaineering  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, in  what  is  virtually  the  heart  of  the  California 
alps. 

No  more  interesting  mountain  road  can  be  found  in 
California  than  the  one  from  Hemet  to  Idlewild,  or  to 
the  upper  reaches  of  Mount  San  Jacinto,  two  miles  above 
the  Pacific.  To  reach  this  point,  the  top  of  the  world 
seemingly,  one  passes  by  mysterious  Mount  Tauquiz, 
about  which  the  old  Indians  say  strange  cries  and 
groans  are  heard  at  times,  weird  tremblings  which  make 
the  entire  mountain  shake.  Here  we  find  the  Tauquiz 
meadows  with  running  streams  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea ;  and  at  every  rise  new  charms  of  scenery  appear. 
The  trip  to  the  summit  from  Idlewild  is  about  thirty 
miles  over  a  good  trail,  and  from  here  hundreds  of 
square  miles  of  California  can  be  seen.  The  changes  in 
forest  flora  alone  repay  the  trip.  From  willow,  sycamore, 


144  Life  in  the  Open 

oak  in  the  lowlands,  the  mountain-climber  comes 
to  spruce,  firs,  pine,  and  cedar.  Farther  on  these  be- 
come scarce  and  far  apart,  and  near  the  rocky  peak 
the  trees  creep  along  the  ground,  dwarfed,  stunted,  as 
though  beaten  down  by  a  constant  and  relentless  enemy. 
What  the  condition  is  here  in  winter  one  can  imagine 
by  watching  San  Antonio,  seeing  the  dense  snow  clouds, 
hundreds  of  feet  high,  roll  up  its  slope,  rising  above 
it  like  the  white  vapours  of  a  volcano. 

The  mountain  lover  will  find  a  delightful  region 
about  Seven  Oaks,  the  head  waters  of  the  Santa  Ana 
River,  the  point  of  departure  being  the  city  of  Red- 
lands  from  which  a  twelve-mile  stage  ride  carries  one 
to  the  half-way  house.  From  here  horses  and  guide 
are  taken  and  the  ride  made  up  into  the  valley  of  the 
Santa  Ana,  famed  for  its  trout  streams  and  scenery, 
almost  a  mile  above  the  sea.  The  country  is  well 
wooded  with  pine  trees,  and  in  the  vicinity  are  Bear 
Valley  and  its  well  stocked  lake,  Barton  Flats,  South 
Fork,  Cienega  Seco,  and  other  places  of  more  or  less 
interest. 

The  San  Bernardino  range  affords  many  caftons 
and  mountain  retreats  attractive  to  the  mountaineer 
and  sportsman,  among  which  is  Skyland  above  San  Ber- 
nardino, five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  This  country 
is  reached  by  a  good  trail  or  mountain  road,  once  the 
old  Arrowhead  toll  road  from  San  Bernardino.  Here 
are  many  cafions — Devil,  Sandpit,  and  Dark  cafions, — 
Squirrel  Inn  and  Little  Bear  Valley,  and  reaching  away  in 


Haunts  of  the  Mountain  Lion,  and  Grizzly  Peak  (11,725  feet  high). 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion 

many  directions  a  richly  wooded  country  that  will  tempt 
the  mountain  lover  on  into  other  delightful  regions. 
All  these  places,  particularly  Fredalba,  have  summer 
camps  and  the  amateur  mountaineer  can  climb  the 
range  with  ease,  and  have  the  comforts  of  civilisation; 
but  recognising  mountain  climbing  as  a  gentle  pastime, 
I  have  in  mind  the  lover  of  nature  who  would  steal 
away  from  the  roar  of  great  cities  and  seek  the 
solitude  of  the  great  silences  of  these  mountains.  I 
recall  a  friend  who  prefers  to  be  alone  in  the 
mountains,  who  can  be  met  in  out-of-the-way  places, 
generally  unarmed,  with  a  pack  burro  and  simple  out- 
fit ;  sleeping  where  the  fancy  takes  him  beneath  the 
trees.  Others  ride  to  the  great  upland  mesas  on  the 
mountains  in  their  own  carriages  or  on  horses,  carrying 
the  outfit.  The  mountains  of  Southern  California  are 
not  often  inviting  to  observers  in  the  valleys ;  their 
south  slopes  have  often  been  burnt  over,  are  bare, 
rocky,  forbidding ;  but  the  keen-eyed  mountain  lover 
will  see  a  fringe  of  trees  on  the  lofty  divides  that  are 
mighty  trunks.  He  will  note  the  deep,  blue  cafions, 
and  once  in  their  portals  and  over  the  divide  on  the 
north  and  on  well-wooded  slopes,  he  will  have  discov- 
ered the  charm  of  Southern  California  woodlands. 
Once  the  lower  country  was  well  wooded;  the  valleys 
abounded  in  oak  forests;  but  vandal  hands  have  cut 
them  down,  and  the  eucalyptus  and  other  trees  that 
grow  rapidly  have  been  planted  by  the  new-comers. 
In  the  canons  we  shall  find  tall  and  picturesque  syca- 


146  Life  in  the  Open 

mores  out  of  leaf  hardly  six  weeks  in  the  year ;  cotton- 
woods,  willows,  and  the  alder.  A  black  and  white  live 
oak  makes  splendid  shade  in  the  bottoms  where  there 
is  water;  and  down  in  San  Diego  County,  in  a  re- 
stricted area  near  Delmar,  grows  the  rarest  tree  in  the 
world — Torrey's  pine,  a  dwarf  species  not  over  forty 
feet  in  height.  As  we  ascend  the  slopes  the  chaparral 
becomes  a  factor;  a  dense  growth  often  covering  the 
hills,  the  home  of  the  mountain  lion,  deer,  and  mountain 
quail.  It  is  made  up  of  several  kinds  of  brush,  at- 
taining the  dignity  of  trees.  This  and  two  species 
of  live-oak  bushes  and  the  Adenostoma  or  grease- 
wood  constitute  the  backbone  of  this  foothill  verdure. 
Then  comes  the  Heteromeles,  with  its  masses  of  red 
berries,  the  "holly"  of  the  Southern  California  Christ- 
mas festival ;  the  wild  lilacs,  with  lavender  and  white 
clusters  of  flowers.  Then  the  manzanita  that  here  is 
rarely  found  on  the  lower  slopes,  though  in  the  north 
I  have  seen  it  on  sea  level.  This  and  the  madrona, 
with  several  others,  make  up  the  forest  of  the  approach 
to  the  Sierra  Madre,  a  mimic  forest  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
high,  through  which  run  quail,  wildcat,  and  other  game ; 
a  dense  interlaced  mass  often  almost  impassable  for  man 
or  horse.  One  of  the  most  serious  predicaments  in 
which  I  ever  found  myself  in  California  was  when  try- 
ing to  make  a  short  cut  and  ride  down  through  the 
chaparral  on  a  steep  slope  of  this  range. 

Following  up   the  cartons  there  is  a  succession  of 
trees  and  shrubs.     The  little  caftons  and  valleys  are 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion         I47 

filled  with  ferns  and  brakes,  alone  a  magnet  to  attract 
one  again  and  again.  The  common  brake  is  the  most 
conspicuous  form,  everywhere  rearing  its  graceful 
shape,  and  in  damp  places  we  find  the  bladder,  shield, 
and  chain  ferns,  cliff  brake,  the  coffee  fern  beneath 
some  scrub  oak,  and  mimic  plantations  of  maiden-hair, 
the  lace  and  cotton  ferns ;  and  clinging  close  to  the 
ground  the  showy  gold  and  silver  back  varieties.  Here 
will  be  a  clump  of  the  huge  mountain  tiger-lily,  six, 
eight,  yes  ten  feet  in  height,  a  splendid  panicle  of 
flowers,  an  orange  patch  against  the  background  of 
green.  The  bay  is  common  at  an  altitude  of  two  thou- 
sand feet,  a  beautiful  tree  pouring  forth  an  invigorating 
aroma  when  touched.  Down  the  sides  of  the  canon 
roll  acorns  two  inches  long,  in  enormous  cups,  started 
by  the  gray  mountain  squirrel  with  foxlike  tail,  that 
eyes  you  from  the  dwarf  oak  on  the  slopes,  and  as  you 
climb  up  the  sides  a  flock  of  dark  blue  mountain 
pigeons  take  flight  or  the  long-plumed  mountain  quail 
steals  away.  On  every  hand  are  evidences  of  the  war 
of  ages.  Great  slides  of  rock  pour  down  like  rivers  and 
are,  indeed,  subtle  slow-moving  rivers  of  stone.  Here 
the  half  of  a  mountain  spur  has  dropped  into  the 
canon,  leaving  a  red  and  jagged  wound.  Part  of  the 
talus  has  been  swept  away  by  the  winter's  flood ;  part  is 
covered  by  clustering  ferns,  while  the  young  lilac  and 
tall  purple  larkspurs  tried  to  cover  it  with  a  mantle  of 
colours. 

Climbing  higher  the  chaparral  grows  thinner,  and 


I4g  Life  in  the  Open 

hundreds  of  acres  of  titanic  rocks  stand  bare  facing  the 
sun,  with  here  and  there  trees  fighting  for  life  in  the 
crevices.  Higher  yet  comes  the  summit,  5000  or  6000 
or  7000  feet  above  the  sea.  From  Mount  Wilson, 
which  forms  one  side  of  the  San  Gabriel  Cafion,  one 
may,  on  a  clear  day,  look  on  all  the  lofty  peaks 
of  Southern  California.  Yonder  is  Grizzly  Peak,  in 
the  San  Bernardino  range,  11,725  feet  high;  nearer, 
Gleason's,  6493;  Cucamonga,  8529;  Mount  Conejo, 
3311;  Argus,  6333  ;  Brown's  Peak,  also  in  San  Ber- 
nardino County,  5392.  White  with  snow,  and  with  snow 
clouds  flying  about  its  summit  in  winter,  Mount  San 
Antonio  rises  10,120  feet  into  the  empyrean,  while  Pilot 
Knob,  far  beyond,  boasts  of  5525  feet.  Other  sentinels 
to  the  east  are  Mount  San  Bernardino,  10,100  feet  high, 
San  Gabriel  Peak,  6232,  and  there  are  countless  others, 
indeed  Southern  California  is  an  alpine  country  by  the 
sea ;  its  valleys  and  level  slopes  are  easier  to  enumerate 
than  its  ranges.  The  Southern  California  mountains 
have  no  Marathon  to  look  down  upon,  but  they  have  the 
sea,  and  from  anywhere  the  blue  Pacific  with  its  outline 
of  white  surf  gleams  brightly  in  the  sunlight. 

Climbing  up  the  mountains  by  the  trails  the  scene  is 
one  of  constant  change.  I  have  stood  on  the  south 
flank  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  four  thousand  feet  above  the 
Pacific,  and  looked  down  upon  the  San  Gabriel  Valley, 
one  of  the  garden  spots  of  the  world.  I  saw  its  groves 
of  orange,  olive,  and  lemon,  its  palms  and  gardens 
stretching  away  for  miles  at  my  feet,  resting  in  the  green 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion         I49 

chaparral,  yet  in  ten  feet,  by  passing  around  a  spur  of 
the  mountain,  I  reached  the  north  side  where  the  snow 
was  a  foot  deep  on  the  trail  and  every  peak  and  slope 
was  covered  with  snow  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
Not  only  could  one  see  winter  and  semi-tropic  summer 
at  a  sweeping  glance,  but  could  leap  from  one  to  the 
other.  This  marvellous  transformation  is  often  seen 
lower  down.  On  the  upper  slopes  are  found  many  pines, 
ponderosa,  albicaulisy  and  monticola,  false  hemlock,  white 
cedars,  and  juniper,  up  to  five  thousand  feet  the  buck- 
thorn, and  beneath  it  the  splendid  wild  fuchsia  making 
or  forming  a  forest  garden  in  itself. 

Up  to  four  thousand  feet  the  great  mass  of  the  chap- 
arral has  been  made  up  of  Adenostoma,  the  "  grease- 
wood"  of  the  Mexicans,  and  from  the  heights  the  eye 
sweeps  over  masses  of  this  rich  green  vestment  that 
rises  and  falls,  dips  into  abysmal  cafions,  tumbling 
into  the  valleys  like  waves  of  the  sea.  We  may  pass 
through  a  narrow  belt  of  madrona  on  the  three-thousand- 
foot  level,  and  now  see  the  spreading,  smooth,  almost 
polished  arms  of  the  manzanita  that  reaches  up  to  the 
greater  heights ;  then,  if  on  the  higher  mountains,  come 
to  forests  and  parks  of  pine,  and  then  to  the  summits  of 
bare  and  barren  rock,  crowned  with  snow  in  winter, 
and  often  bearing  it  far  into  the  summer. 

The  highest  mountain  in  the  southern  Sierras  is 
Grizzly  Peak,  or  Grayback,  eleven  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  twenty-five  feet,  capping  the  San  Ber- 
nardino section  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  and  remarkable  as 


,5o  Life  in  the  Open 

being  the  highest  mountain  in  North  America  from  its 
immediate  base.  Other  peaks  are  measured  from  the 
sea  level ;  but  this  stupendous  shaft  rises  clear  eleven 
thousand  feet — over  two  miles — into  the  air  from  its  im- 
mediate base,  and  affords  one  of  the  most  profound 
and  comprehensive  views  in  the  world.  At  a  single 
sweep  of  the  eye,  the  mountain-climber  can  face 
desert,  ocean,  and  garden  ;  almost  every  physical  con- 
dition known  to  man  is  in  sight.  To  the  east  lies  the 
Colorado  desert,  its  pallid  yellow  sands  drifting  into  the 
distant  haze.  Here  is  the  chasm  of  San  Gorgonio,  an 
abysmal  gulf  yawning  nine  thousand  feet  below.  Be- 
yond rises,  sentinel-like,  San  Jacinto,  with  rocky  flanks 
hiding  groves  of  pine,  beautiful  glens  and  streams, 
a  wonderland  shooting  upward  ten  thousand  feet  within 
five  miles. 

I  have  approached  these  mountains  from  the  desert, 
where  the  stupendous  masses  of  rock  face  a  temper- 
ature menacing  in  its  heat,  and  look  down  upon  one  of 
the  most  desolate  scenes  on  the  habitable  globe.  No- 
where is  there  a  greater  contrast  than  this  heated  wall 
of  rock  of  San  Jacinto  looking  down  on  Indio  and  Sal- 
ton  and  the  Salton  sink,  the  bottom  of  an  ancient  sea 
two  hundred  and  eighty  feet  below  the  level  of  the  Gulf 
of  California,  and  the  region  just  over  the  divide  that 
forms  the  splendid  park  region  of  San  Jacinto  Mountain, 
with  its  brooks,  forests,  and  lakes.  The  most  stolid 
mountain-climber  is  awed  and  silenced  at  the  peaks, 
ranges,  chasms,  and  gulches  that  stretch  away  before 


Home  of  the  Mountain  Lion         151 

him.  To  the  north  lies  the  Mojave  desert,  to  the 
south  a  maze  of  mountains,  billows  of  eternal  silence, 
rolling  on  into  the  distant  haze  to  reappear  far  down  in 
Mexico,  rising  in  stupendous  peaks,  dividing  the  penin- 
sula so  that  one  can  stand  on  its  summit,'  on  the  eyrie 
of  the  mountain  lion,  and  glance  at  the  Pacific  on  one 
side,  the  Gulf  of  California  and  the  mountains  of 
Arizona  on  the  other. 

To  the  north-west,  great  ranges  drop  away  to  an 
altitude  of  five  thousand  feet,  deeply  wooded  with  pine, 
leaping  downward  like  some  living  thing  into  the  Cajon 
Pass  to  rise  a  green  maze  to  Mount  Cucamonga, 
tumbling  away  to  the  west,  rising  again  in  San  Antonio 
to  ten  thousand  feet,  while  far  beyond  are  peaks  which 
tell  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  taking  one  in  imagination 
the  entire  length  of  this  stupendous  range  that  forms 
the  backbone  of  California  and  stands  a  protecting  bar- 
rier between  the  desert  and  the  deep  sea. 


Chapter  XI 

The  Valley  Quail 


ONE  of  the  last  quail  hunts  in  which  I  partici- 
pated led  me  over  the  San  Rafael  Hills,  which 
rise  to  the  west  of  the  head  of  the  San  Gabriel 
Valley.  Along  the  ridges  I  followed  up  the  coyote  trails 
to  the  summits,  and  looked  down  into  a  score  of  little 
valleys  hoping  to  see  a  covey  or  hear  the  rich  " po-ta-toe  " 
rising  from  the  green  depths  of  the  chaparral  or  see  the 
birds  in  the  open,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  As  I  wandered 
home  in  the  cool  evening  I  dropped  over  the  edge  of 
the  Arroyo  Seco,  crossed  it,  and  had  climbed  the 
opposite  side,  hardly  a  rifle  shot  from  my  home,  when  I 
walked  into  a  large  flock  of  quail ;  they  were  running 
across  the  dusty  road  into  a  field  of  dried  burr  clover, 
and,  once  there,  stood  and  looked  at  me  not  fifty  feet 
away,  while  I,  returning  from  my  quail  hunt,  also 
looked.  This  is  what  I  saw — a  flock  of  little  birds,  not 
quite  so  large  as  the  bob-white,  but  each  bearing  jauntily 
a  plume  that  fell  over  its  bill  to  the  front,  giving  the 

155 


156  Life  in  the  Open 

» 
bird  a  most  Monnaire  appearance.       In    colour   they 

were  a  mass  of  blue  ash  or  slate,  with  striped  chestnut 
hues  below,  with  flashes  of  sun  gold,  white,  black,  and 
tan.  The  throat  of  the  male  was  black,  and  he  had  a 
white  "  eyebrow  "  and  a  collar  of  white  around  his  black 
throat,  a  radiant  little  creature,  a  pheasant  in  its  colour 
scheme,  and  the  incident  of  our  meeting  well  illustrates 
the  habit  of  the  little  bird.  I  did  not  fire  ;  one  cannot 
shoot  down  a  neighbour  in  cold  blood,  if  the  laws  do 
permit.  Some  of  these  birds  nest  in  an  adjacent  garden, 
and  I  can  often  hear  the  melody  of  their  notes  in  the 
Arroyo,  or  the  thunder  of  their  wings  as  they  rise  from 
the  open  and  plunge  down  into  the  depths  of  the  deep 
abyss.  So,  if  one  must  have  quail  without  compunc- 
tions of  conscience,  he  goes  away  from  home,  out  into 
the  country  in  the  unsettled  districts  where  there  is 
sport  of  the  finest  quality.  When  I  first  came  to 
Southern  California,  plumed  quail  could  be  found  every- 
where. They  lived  in  all  the  caftons  and  little  valleys 
of  the  foothills,  and  held  high  revelry  in  the  openings 
where  the  gravel  of  the  wash  spread  out,  fan-like,  and 
merged  into  the  low  chaparral.  Their  flute-like  notes 
could  be  heard  at  all  times — whit-w hit-whit — when 
you  were  near,  and  when  far  away  the  loud,  screeching 
clarion  challenge  of  the  male — po-/#-toe,  po-ta-toe,  or 
ca-^-cow.  But  the  fencing  up  of  the  country,  the 
growth  of  towns,  has  pushed  the  little  birds  out  of  back 
yards,  and  to  obtain  good  sport  the  outlying  country 
must  be  tried,  where  the  dainty  birds  are  found  in  vast 


The  Valley  Quail  157 

numbers,  and  the  vibrant  whi-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r  often  fills 
the  air.  No  bird  is  so  disconcerting.  Recently,  at 
Santa  Catalina,  in  the  off  season,  I  was  riding  along 
when  at  a  sudden  turn  my  horse  faced  a  covey  of 
quail  in  the  road.  Did  they  rise?  Not  at  all.  The 
hens  ran  down  the  road  a  way,  while  the  cock  stood  his 
ground,  walking  back  and  forth  in  a  comical  fashion,  as 
though  saying,  "  You  know  it  is  not  the  season  and  I 
am  safe."  These  birds  refused  to  fly  and  walked 
some  distance  down  the  road,  then  into  the  low 
bushes,  where  they  watched  me  with  many  a  note — 
whit-w  hit-whit. 

Laguna  and  vicinity  is  one  of  the  best  quail  grounds, 
and  there  are  scores  of  localities  all  down  the  coast  as 
good.  You  find  the  birds,  perhaps,  in  some  little  valley 
shut  in  by  hills,  whose  sides  are  covered  with  green  Ade- 
nostoma  and  whose  edges,  perhaps,  are  broken  with 
cactus  patches.  The  air  is  clear,  with  a  marvellous  carry- 
ing capacity,  and  suddenly  there  comes  woo-w/ia-ho, 
\voo-wha-\\o',  and  from  another  point  or  canon  rises 
O-/IZ-Q,  and  many  variants,  possibly  with  a  slightly  differ- 
ent inflection.  We  are  in  the  quail  country,  there  can 
be  no  question  as  to  that.  They  have  not  discovered 
you,  and  louder  come  the  sweet  notes,  tuck-ca-cue, 
tuck-0-hoe,  of  the  males,  who  are  calling  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  it.  Perhaps  you  are  walking  down 
the  ridge  and  now  look  over ;  perhaps  your  gun 
has  caught  a  sun  gleam  and  tossed  it  into  the 
next  carton,  as  up  from  the  sage  comes  whit-w  hit- whit, 


158  Life  in  the  Open 

the  warning  of  the  quail,  and  then  perfect  silence ; 
then  wook-wook,  and  from  far  away,  wak-ze//z#-who. 
You  creep  carefully  over  the  divide  to  find  them 
gone ;  indeed  the  flock  is  running  off.  The  speed 
with  which  they  make  their  way  through  the  brush  is 
marvellous ;  and  by  the  time  you  reach  them  again  they 
are  ready  to  repeat  the  operation.  After  a  big  covey  is 
met  with,  they  will  keep  just  out  of  range,  and  you 
gradually  discover  the  secret,  which  is  to  throw  Eastern 
diplomacy  and  strategy  to  the  winds,  and  when  a  flock 
is  sighted,  walk,  or  even  run,  into  it  as  fast  as  possible. 
The  main  body  will  rise  ahead,  but  there  are  always 
three  or  four  or  more  that  stay  behind  and  rise  within 
range  to  afford  you  an  excellent  and  often  futile  shot. 
In  this  way,  hunting  the  flocks  and  advancing  boldly 
and  quickly  upon  them  when  found,  a  bag  can  be  gotten 
in  th'e  easiest  manner. 

In  point  of  fact,  every  ordinary  rule  is  broken  by  the 
successful  California  quail  hunter,  and  I  well  recall  the 
amusement  of  a  friend  from  the  East  when  we  were 
working  up  on  a  covey  when  I  fired  into  the  air  over 
their  heads.  But  he  soon  saw  the  philosophy  of  the 
movement.  We  were  between  them  and  the  thick 
chaparral-covered  hills,  and  they  rose  with  a  roar  of 
wings  and  separated,  going  in  all  directions.  And  then 
our  hunt  began,  as  we  moved  on  through  the  sage, 
the  birds  lying  low  and  rising  in  the  most  unexpected 
fashion.  One  of  my  first  experiences  was  in  hunting 
over  a  descendant  of  the  famous  "  Bang  Bang."  He 


The  Valley  Quail  159 

had  never  pointed  a  California  quail,  and  the  birds  lay 
so  close  and  long  that  he  was  fairly  bewildered,  but 
suddenly  a  quail  rose  almost  under  his  nose,  and  came 
whizzing  toward  me,  aimed  for  my  head.  I  dodged, 
whirled  about,  and  killed  the  quail  exactly  behind  me 
almost  out  of  range. 

If  the  birds  can  be  kept  in  the  open  in  low  brush, 
the  sport  conducted  in  this  way  is  excellent,  and  the 
slopes  of  Laguna  to  the  sea  are  an  attractive  place. 
Often  the  birds  fly  to  the  nearest  hill,  and  you  see 
them,  with  wings  set,  pitching  over  a  divide  and  plung- 
ing into  the  chaparral  like  shots  out  of  a  rapid-firing  gun. 
Then  comes  the  whit-w hit-whit,  and  if  you  were  there 
you  would  see  a  few  birds  in  the  limbs  watching  you,  while 
the  others  were  walking  upward  with  incredible  speed, 
reaching  the  summit,  perhaps,  and  leading  the  tyro  a 
long  and  profitless  climb. 

Before  the  green  has  left  the  lowlands,  and  when  the 
land  is  still  running  riot  with  flowers,  early  in  April,  the 
quail,  or  valley  partridge,  begins  to  nest,  and  the  period 
extends  far  into  the  summer.  The  nest  is  often  placed 
in  an  obscure  place.  It  may  be  in  your  garden,  or 
beneath  a  sage-brush,  and  I  have  found  them  in  the 
Arroyo  Seco,  near  water,  hidden  in  a  mass  of  vines,  the 
bird  darting  out  and  trying  every  artifice  to  coax  me 
away.  From  nine  to  twenty-three  eggs  have  been  found, 
but  the  average  is  from  sixteen  to  seventeen.  The 
young  are  able  to  run  when  a  day  or  two  old,  and 
present  an  attractive  sight,  running  in  long  lines.  In  a 


i6o  Life  in  the  Open 

few  days  they  fly,  and  later  the  valleys  are  filled  with 
great  flocks  of  grown  and  half-grown  birds. 

Quail  hunting  takes  the  sportsman  into  the  open 
and  affords  him  some  of  the  most  delightful  glimpses  of 
Southern  California.  If  the  San  Gabriel  fails  there  are 
countless  valleys  near  Santa  Barbara,  in  San  Diego, 
Orange,  Riverside,  San  Bernardino,  and  other  counties 
which  afford  excellent  shooting ;  or,  one  may  go  up  the 
coast  through  Ventura  or  along  shore  above  Santa 
Monica,  or  to  Santa  Catalina,  where  at  the  camp  at 
Eagle's  Nest,  where  the  cafion  dips  down  toward  the  sea, 
I  have  sat  and  watched  the  quail  and  listened  to  their 
continuous  calls,  kwok-kwoo — kwok-kwoo — or  o-hi~o, 
o-hi-o,  or  ka-loi-o*  ka-wak-up,  a  medley  of  flute-like 
sounds  and  their  variants  coming  from  the  high  green 
slope  of  the  mountains. 

In  February,  when  the  charm  of  winter  is  at  its 
height,  the  land  is  often  ablaze  with  colour,  and  the 
sportsman  may  walk  through  little  valleys  carpeted  with 
a  cloth  of  gold,  when  the  yellow  and  white  daisy-like 
blossoms  star  the  ground,  and  the  yellow  violet  nods  in 
the  gentle  wind,  or  he  may  emerge  into  a  little  valley 
where  the  painter's  brush  has  drawn  its  colour  scheme  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  see,  while  the  low  trees  are  covered 
with  the  brilliant  red  of  the  honeysuckle.  Led  on  and 
on,  he  finds  the  golden  mustard  and  later  the  indigo  of 
the  larkspur  blending  in  the  sun,  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
little  wash  trumpet-like  flowers,  a  flame  of  colour. 

In  the  wash,  across  which  the  birds  now  run,  the 


ffi 


The  Valley  Quail  161 

chilocothe  hangs  in  rich  green  garlands  and  the  little 
mounds  are  overrun  with  chlorizanthe,  every  portion 
of  this  winter  garden  having  its  charm,  its  scheme  of 
colour  and  beauty.  It  is  difficult  to  find  the  objectiona- 
ble features  which  are  a  part  of  the  hunter's  or  camp- 
er's life  in  other  parts  of  the  world,  though  I  have  heard 
critics  denounce  the  sunshine  as  too  monotonous,  to 
which  covert  attack  there  is  perhaps  no  reply. 

I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  have  never  shot  a  mount- 
ain quail,  as  I  always  feel  that  I  never  could  find  a 
satisfying  excuse  for  destroying  so  beautiful  a  creature. 

I  first  saw  them  on  the  north  slope  of  a  peak  about 
ten  miles  back  of  Mount  Wilson,  in  the.  very  heart 
of  the  Sierra  Madre.  I  was  lying  under  the  thick 
branches  of  a  wild  lilac,  resting  after  a  hard  climb,  when 
through  a  leafy  arcade,  not  one  hundred  feet  away, 
came  five  or  six  mountain  quail.  I  had  just  left  a 
branch  of  the  stream,  and  all  about  were  brakes,  giant 
ferns,  and  forests  of  the  more  delicate  kinds,  with  here 
and  there  the  tall  stalk  of  the  mountain  tiger  lily.  A  tree 
that  had  been  thrown  over  in  the  long  ago  and  covered 
with  lichens  lay  half  buried  in  the  dense  underbrush, 
and  down  this  highway  came  the  jaunty  band,  stopping 
every  now  and  then,  and  uttering  a  peculiarly  musical 
note  that  sounded  like  do,  do,  d,  d,  d ;  then  coming  on 
until  they  reached  a  point  hardly  thirty  feet  from  me, 
when  they  again  stopped  and  eyed  me  with  idle  curiosity, 
then  came  ten  feet  nearer.  A  more  dainty  creature 
with  its  long  plumes  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 


162  Life  in  the  Open 

A  striking  feature  is  the  chestnut-hued  throat,  black 
banded,  surrounded  in  turn  with  a  pure  white  band  and 
on  the  sides  pronounced  bars  of  black,  chestnut  and 
white. 

I  did  not  move,  and  they  came  on  until  within  six 
feet  of  me,  gazing  with  their  gentle  brown  eyes,  looking 
me  over,  examining  my  gun,  and  evidently  deciding 
that  I  was  some  kind  of  a  sportsman,  but  harmless.  As 
they  paused,  I  uttered  a  low  whistle  and  they  turned, 
each  lifting  its  head,  as  though  to  catch  the  sound,  and 
then  like  magic  they  melted  away.  If  any  one  has  the 
fancy  for  the  hardest  kind  of  hunting,  in  the  hardest 
kind  of  country,  I  can  commend  this,  as  the  birds  while 
often  seen  in  the  foothills  are  found  principally  in  the 
thickest  chaparral  of  the  upper  ranges,  and  to  follow 
them  requires,  at  least  did  when  I  knew  them,  the  most 
difficult  climbing. 

The  nest  of  this  quail  has  been  found  hardly  a  mile 
from  my  home,  four  miles  from  the  base  of  the  Sierra 
Madre  ;  but  the  nests  are  not  easy  to  find  and  are  mostly 
in  the  heart  of  the  great  range  where  nature  has  afforded 
them  ample  protection. 

There  is  still  another  quail  in  Southern  California, 
the  quail  of  the  desert,  or  Gambel's  partridge,  found 
principally  in  Arizona,  but  also  on  the  borders  of  the 
desert  where  it  merges  into  the  high  mountains  of 
California.  In  many  ways  the  bird  resembles  the  valley 
quail,  and  its  habits  are  similar,  though  it  has  the  desert 
habit  and  seems  to  love  the  regions  that  man  avoids,  the 


The  Valley  Quail  163 

great  washes  where  the  heat  is  often  like  a  furnace  blast. 
All  these  birds  are  easily  tamed,  and  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  my  house  an  acquaintance  has  all  three  varieties 
in  confinement. 


Chapter  XII 

The  Heart  of  the  Desert 

The  Pronghorn 

IT  is  among  the  strange  anomalies  of  life  that  some 
men  see  a  charm  in  regions  that  others  describe 
as  God-forgotten  ;  localities  where  Nature  is  at 
her  worst,  where  the  elements  are  abroad,  searching 
for  life,  falling  upon  every  living  thing.  I  have  crossed 
the  great  American  deserts  many  times ;  have  seen 
them  in  all  their  moods,  have  driven  over  parts  of  them 
when  the  limit  of  heat  endurance  was  seemingly  reached, 
and  never  found  any  one  who  cared  to  live  there;  yet  it 
is  rare  to  find  one  who  fails  to  recognise  the  peculiar  at- 
traction of  these  sand  wastes,  the  home  of  the  mirage 
and  sand-storm.  I  recall  the  sunset  illumination  of  the 
Sangre  de  Cristo  Mountains,  which  rise  in  what  some 
might  call  a  desert,  yet  far  from  it,  and  have  since  ob- 
served the  same  effect  in  the  Sierra  Madre  from  the 
desert  to  the  east  of  Mojave.  No  more  forbidding  vista 
ever  filled  human  vision  than  parts  of  this  desert,  consti- 

167 


168  Life  in  the  Open 

luting  the  eastern  portion  of  California.  A  curse  seems 
to  have  fallen  upon  the  very  vegetation,  which  is  weird 
and  fantastic,  befitting  the  surroundings.  At  mid-day 
the  full  force  of  the  sun  beats  down  upon  rock  and 
sand,  the  buttes  assume  a  thousand  shapes  and  to  the 
eye  are  isolated  castles  which  imagination  garbs  with 
romance  and  mystery.  The  vision  is  distorted,  a  wavy, 
nebulous  mist  rising  from  the  ground,  changing  the  form, 
colour,  and  appearance  of  all  objects.  The  shadows  have 
been  driven  from  the  land,  and  the  glare  of  the  sun  is 
like  the  blast  of  a  furnace,  if  in  summer  ;  yet  the  travel- 
ler can  but  recognise  the  strange  beauty  of  the  region, 
as  nowhere  can  such  pure  colour  or  its  complete  absence 
be  seen.  There  is  apparently  no  life  where  the  white 
sand  sweeps  on,  but  the  drifting  dunes  have  a  weird  life 
of  their  own  and  are  ever  moving,  changing  like  some 
restless  monster,  and  in  the  region  of  the  Salton,  reach- 
ing up  to  the  Sierra  Madre,  present  the  appearance  of  a 
vast  river  flowing  on  eternally ;  even  when  the  wind  is 
in  abeyance  the  sand  is  moving.  All  over  its  surface 
are  small  currents  rippling  on,  cutting  furrows,  carving 
figures  of  strange  design,  the  caprice  of  the  wind. 

The  scene  when  the  wind,  developed  into  a  sand- 
storm, sweeps  down  this  vast  pass,  or  el  Cajdn,  is  beyond 
description.  The  very  earth  appears  to  be  lifted  into  the 
air  and  carried  on,  a  wall  of  copper-coloured  cloud.  With 
even  a  full  knowledge  of  this  region  it  is  difficult  to  select 
one  portion  which  has  not  at  times  some  feature  that  ap- 
peals to  the  imagination,  yet  is  calculated  to  alarm  the 


The  Heart  of  the  Desert  169 

physical  man ;  but,  in  my  experience,  possibly  the 
strange  valley  which  reaches  north  from  Cochise  in 
the  territory  is  the  most  remarkable.  Little  wonder 
the  ancient  people  had  legends  of  giants  and  pos- 
sible genii,  as  no  desert  region  in  America  presents 
so  weird  an  appearance.  To  the  south  the  eye  rests 
upon  a  vast  lake,  which  can  be  seen  ten  or  twelve 
miles  distant  from  the  slopes  of  the  mountains, 
and  when  I  first  saw  it,  its  beauty  was  entrancing. 
Away  to  the  south,  on  its  borders,  were  hills  of 
purple,  each  reflected  as  clearly  as  though  photo- 
graphed, and  still  beyond  rose  the  caps  and  summits  of 
other  peaks  and  mountains  rising  from  this  inland  sea, 
whose  waters  were  of  turquoise  ;  yet,  as  we  moved  down 
the  slope,  the  lake  was  always  stealing  on  before.  It 
was  of  the  things  dreams  are  made  of,  that  has  driven 
men  mad  and  to  despair,  its  bed  a  level  floor  of  alkali 
and  clay,  covered  with  a  dry,  impalpable  dust  that  the 
slightest  wind  tossed  and  whirled  in  air.  No  more 
beautiful  mirage  can  be  seen  in  this  country  if  one  cares 
to  visit  the  region  in  August.  As  I  watched  this  lake  of 
the  imagination,  I  saw  the  rise  of  the  genii  of  Cochise 
from  its  mirror-like  surface.  Like  the  giant  of  Sindbad, 
from  the  flask  of  the  fisherman,  they  rose  upward  in  weird 
and  colossal  shapes,  then  moved  slowly  off  over  the  sur- 
face to  the  south.  On  my  last  visit  to  this  valley  in  mid- 
summer of  1903,  this  marvellous  scene  was  at  its  best, 
and  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  sand  or  dust-spouts  or 
columns  could  be  seen  sweeping  down  this  valley  of 


1 70  Life  in  the  Open 

horrors  on  to  the  lake  of  literal  despair ;  some  so  high 
that  they  appeared  to  support  the  very  empyrean,  and  so 
exact  in  their  imitation  of  water-spouts  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  disassociate  them  from  the  sham  water  on  the 
illusive  lake. 

Once  while  crossing  this  valley — which  despite  its 
menacing  character  is  to  be  a  desert  reclaimed  and  a  rail- 
road point  of  importance  in  the  future, — innumerable 
sand-spouts  appeared  to  join  forces,  forming  a  gigantic 
column  seemingly  a  mile  in  height.  It  was  of  a  lurid, 
copper  tint,  menacing  in  shape  and  colour,  sweeping 
along  with  the  stride  of  the  wind,  its  upper  portion 
whirling  about  as  though  in  a  vortex. 

Despite  the  disagreeable  features  of  these  desert 
phenomena,  their  beauties,  the  grandeur  of  the  effects, 
more  than  repay  one.  What  can  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  view  from  the  desert  near  Palm  Springs  ?  As  night 
draws  on,  the  tops  of  the  mountains  are  tipped  with  the 
most  brilliant  vermilion,  which  grows  deeper  and  more 
firelike  as  day  shortens,  and  all  the  time,  out  from  the 
countless  cafions,  cuts,  and  passes,  creep  deep  shadows, 
like  living  things,  venturing  out  as  the  sun  loses  its 
power.  At  first  they  flood  the  cafions,  then  flow  down, 
spreading  out  in  ineffable  tints,  stealing  out  upon  the 
sands  of  the  desert  into  its  very  heart  until  they  fairly 
fill  it,  and  the  great  waste  is  a  purple  sea,  awash  with 
the  panoply  of  night  At  sunrise  this  strange  trans- 
formation scene  is  reversed.  The  tips  of  the  range  are 
again  bathed  in  vermilion  and  the  shadows  slink  away, 


A  Desert  Forest.     Native  Palms  near  Palm  Springs,  California. 


The  Heart  of  the  Desert  171 

retreating  to  the  canons,  seemingly  utterly  driven  out 
by  the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun. 

No  one  can  deny  the  charm  of  such  a  region,  and  the 
impulse  to  move  on  and  into  the  heart  of  the  desert  is 
often  almost  irresistible,  the  strange  buttes  ever  beckon- 
ing on.  The  vegetation  of  the  desert,  while  forbidding, 
has  its  attractions.  What  might  be  considered  the  very 
heart  of  the  desert,  as  the  alkali  plain  between  Yuma 
and  the  Sierra  Madre,  is  apparently  divested  of  vegeta- 
tion, but  careful  examination  shows  something  growing 
in  the  gullies,  and  even  where  the  sand  is  tossed  like 
snow,  a  grass  appears  fighting  for  supremacy,  while  a 
few  bushes  struggle  upward.  On  the  edge  of  the  desert, 
in  canons  which  at  times  reflect  the  summer  heat  like  a 
furnace  and  through  which  the  superheated  air  rushes, 
are  seen  lofty  palms,  their  roots  deep  in  the  rocky  chan- 
nel that  the  winter  rains  have  made.  In  some  of  the 
canons  the  palms  grow  in  great  numbers.  Apparently 
the  seeds  are  swept  down  on  to  the  lower  levels,  and 
where  the  canon  opens  out  and  becomes  a  wide  valley 
groves  of  lofty  palms  are  seen, — among  the  most  pictur- 
esque and  beautiful  forms  of  the  desert. 

It  is  doubtful  if  one  can  make  a  strong  enough  plea 
for  the  desert  to  induce  people  to  visit  it.  Thousands 
cross  its  very  heart  every  year  to  reach  Southern  Cali- 
fornia;  indeed  one  cannot  reach  the  Pacific  by  land 
except  by  the  desert  route  ;  but  the  average  tourist  fails 
to  see  it,  as  the  railroad  has  so  arranged  that  the  passage 
of  this  dry  Styx  is  made  by  night;  thus  its  varied 


1 72  Life  in  the  Open 

attractions  are  lost.  It  may  savour  of  exaggeration  to 
some  readers  if  I  say  that  I  have  felt  vastly  more  un- 
comfortable in  Chicago,  New  York,  or  Philadelphia  than 
I  have  when  passing  through  the  heart  of  the  desert  in 
midsummer.  Not  long  ago  I  made  the  trip  across  what 
is  considered  the  hottest  part  of  the  United  States  in 
the  hottest  time — or  August, — crossing  the  California 
desert  to  Yuma,  then  on  through  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico  to  Texas,  and  so  on  to  the  Gulf  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Rio  Grande.  Doubtless  to  some  the  land  for 
the  entire  distance  was  a  desert,  and  certainly  it  was  not 
far  from  it,  so  far  as  appearance  was  concerned  ;  a  dry 
hot  ride  of  several  thousand  miles  ;  yet  I  have  been  far 
more  uncomfortable  from  heat  in  the  East,  north  of 
Cape  Cod.  This  unpopular  region,  in  parts,  is  truly  a 
desert,  particularly  the  eastern  portion  of  California, 
but  it  has  its  compensations  ;  it  appeals  to  the  lover  of 
nature,  its- very  barrenness  in  places  giving  it  a  peculiar 
interest.  The  great  beds  of  shifting  sand,  where  there 
seems  to  be  absolutely  no  vegetable  life,  are  fascinating 
to  some.  They  have  a  life  peculiarly  their  own.  They 
move,  they  seem  to  breathe,  they  change  form  and 
stature  from  day  to  day  ;  now  rising  high  ;  anon  low  and 
flat ;  now  creeping  along  in  many  streams  or  rivers ; 
towering  high  in  air — a  spectral  cloud  to  sweep  along, 
shutting  out  the  entire  desert  from  view. 

Few  places  are  more  desolate  than  the  slope  of  the 
Sierra  Madre  as  it  rolls  down  into  the  Mojave  country  ; 
yet  I  have  always  been  rewarded  by  the  splendours  of  the 


The  Heart  of  the  Desert  173 

sunset  on  the  Sierras  from  this  portion  of  the  desert. 
Leaving  the  hills,  we  enter  a  forest  of  yucca,  the  weird 
distorted  branches,  seemingly  stricken  by  the  blast  of 
death,  reaching  out  at  one  ;  a  forest  of  fearsome  shape 
and  feature  that  occupies  a  belt  four  or  five  miles  wide, 
then  melting  into  the  sands  of  the  desert  with  distant 
buttes  on  the  line  over  the  edge  of  the  world ;  cities, 
temples,  towers,  minarets  of  the  fancy,  that  lure  one  on 
and  on. 

But  turn  to  the  Sierra  Madre  at  sundown  and  tell 
me  whether  the  desert  has  called  you  in  vain.  Watch 
the  purple  shadows  creep  out  of  distant  canons  and 
encompass  the  pallid  desert.  See  the  banners  of  encar- 
nadine  painting  each  cliff  and  peak  until  the  entire  range 
is  suffused  with  a  warm  glow,  as  though  some  roseate 
lace-like  film  had  been  drawn  over  them  as  they  sank 
into  the  deep  gloom  of  the  night. 

But  what  have  the  deserts  to  do  with  sport  ? — you  will 
ask.  I  might  reply  that  the  study  of  the  desert  affords 
infinite  pastime.  Come  down  through  the  forest  of 
yucca,  where  the  mountains  sink  away  to  the  sage- 
brush, when  the  winter  has  come,  when  the  sky  is  clear, 
and  the  rain  has  washed  from  the  air  every  scintillating 
atom  ,  come  into  the  shadow  of  this  clump  of  desert 
brush  on  the  edge  of  a  wash.  Your  eye  may  see  no- 
thing in  this  vague  landscape,  this  blaze  of  colour  and 
tint,  that  Lungren  knows  and  paints  so  well ;  but  if 
your  luck  is  with  you  and  is  of  a  specious  quality,  sud- 
denly something  moves  far  away  in  the  centre  of  the 


I74  Life  in  the  Open 

valley.  It  might  be  a  phantasm,  the  outline  of  a  tall 
yucca ;  but  out  it  comes,  and  resolves  itself  into  a  bit  of 
the  desert  landscape,  two,  three,  four  pronghorns,  the 
last  of  the  Californians  to  hold  their  own  in  Antelope 
Valley,  the  rarest  of  California  animals,  with  the  great 
condor  and  grizzly,  not  to  be  hunted  with  rifle,  but  to 
be  looked  at  and  bidden  godspeed  and  long  life  if  you 
please.  I  conceive  various  kinds  of  hunting :  there  is 
hunting  with  the  eye,  watching  the  beauties  of  game, 
and  its  ways  ;  and  that  it  has  its  advantages  is  shown  by 
the  fact  that  you  may  repeat  it  indefinitely,  and  the 
more  you  hunt  in  this  way,  the  better  grows  the  sport, 
the  more  plentiful  the  game  ;  and  I  bespeak  for  the  little 
California  antelope  the  hunter  of  this  class,  that  his  life 
may  be  long  in  the  land  that  once  knew  him  so  well. 

Not  many  years  ago  the  pronghorn  was  among  the 
commonest  animals  in  the  open  country.  Large  herds 
lived  in  the  vicinity  of  Elizabeth  Lake,  and  the  great 
valley  that  extends  from  the  Mojave  desert  west,  or 
north-west,  was  named  for  them.  In  those  days  they 
could  also  be  found  in  the  Mojave  and  along  the  mount- 
ains of  California  everywhere.  They  appeared  to  rise 
from  the  bed  of  the  pallid  silent  sea  of  sand.  But,  like 
the  buffalo,  the  antelope  has  been  crowded  to  the  wall 
in  California,  and  a  few  small  herds  only  haunt  the  great 
desert  of  to-day. 

In  his  antelope  range  map  of  1902,  Merriam  recog- 
nises a  few  in  the  extreme  north-west  of  California,  and 
another  herd  near  the  Mexican  line  where  Imperial  and 


Candle  Cactus,  Lower  California  and  Arizona. 


The  Heart  of  the  Desert  175 

other  towns  now  stand,  or  in  the  country  west  of  the 
delta  along  New  River.  If  one  wishes  antelope  hunt- 
ing he  must  go  to  Arizona,  Sonora,  Chihuahua,  Mon- 
tana, or  Wyoming ;  or,  nearer,  take  the  steamer  for 
Ensenada  and  hunt  for  the  only  American  antelope  in 
Lower  California,  in  whose  ranges  the  mountain  sheep 
is  also  found. 

Within  fifteen  years  there  has  been  excellent  ante- 
lope hunting  in  the  Mojave  and  Antelope  valleys,  which 
shows  how  suddenly  this  game  has  been  driven  out  by 
the  march  of  enterprise.  On  the  Mojave  desert  I  met 
an  old  California!!  who  told  me  that  he  had  had  the  sport 
of  his  life  before  he  got  so  "long  in  the  tooth."  His 
method  was  to  follow  the  antelope  on  horseback  ;  either 
run  it  down,  or  shoot  it  from  the  saddle  at  full  speed — 
a  dangerous  and  sportsmanlike  method  in  strong  con- 
trast to  the  fashion  of  some  hunters  who  entice  the  little 
creature  up  to  them  by  "ways  that  are  dark"  and  shoot 
it  down,  a  victim  to  curiosity. 

The  pronghorn  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  all 
American  animals,  and  should  be  shot  only  with  a 
camera.  It  is  the  only  hollow-horned  animal  that  sheds 
its  horn  sheaths — a  feature  that  was  long  denied  or 
doubted,  and  believed  impossible.  In  the  early  days  it 
roamed  over  the  great  plains  and  was  essentially  an  ani- 
mal of  the  open.  Its  hair  is  rough  and  stiff,  its  horns 
graceful,  with  a  single  prong  half-way  up,  and  near  their 
base  the  large  and  prominent  eyes  which  enable  them 
to  see  an  enemy  for  a  long  distance  behind.  In  the 


,76  Life  in  the  Open 

north  the  herds  migrate  at  different  times  of  the  year, 
but  in  the  south,  as  in  Mexico,  they  are  found  in  the 
same  general  localities  year  after  year.  The  young  are 
born  in  May  or  June.  For  a  few  days  they  are  helpless, 
and  would  be  easily  passed  by  as  a  stone  or  as  brush,  the 
little  one  stretching  itself  out,  laying  its  head  flat,  and 
remaining  perfectly  quiet  though  a  pack  train  passes 
within  a  few  feet — unconscious  mimicry  that  often  saves 
it  from  enemies.  By  all  means  hunt  the  antelope  on 
the  California  desert,  and  when  it  is  found,  let  it  pass. 
The  compensation  is  a  glance  at  one  of  the  greatest 
deserts  of  the  world,  a  vast  dreamland,  which  some 
winters  is  a  bed  of  flowers,  and  in  summer  is  often  a 
fiery  furnace,  a  menace  to  life. 

A  fascinating  part  of  the  desert  is  that  portion  near 
Indio,  where,  in  the  present  year,  that  spectre  of  this 
desert,  the  "  Salton  sea,"  rose  and  filled  the  Salton  basin 
until  the  Indians,  who  took  to  the  hills,  could  not  see 
across.  This  strange  phenomenon  threatened  various 
desert  towns,  and  bridges  were  washed  away.  Boats  were 
built  in  Imperial  in  this  year  when  the  Rio  Colorado 
ran  wild,  broke  through  the  intakes  of  the  big  irrigating 
canal,  and  found  its  way  by  old  trails  and  new  river- 
beds to  the  Salton  sink,  two  hundred  and  eighty  feet  be- 
neath the  level  of  the  sea.  The  last  time  I  rode  into 
Indio  the  locusts  were  "stabbing  the  air  with  their 
shrill  alarms,"  and  one  could  smell  the  heat.  It  was  too 
hot  for  originality,  so  I  remarked  to  a  native  that  it  was 
hot,  it  being  1 10°  in  the  shade.  He  smiled  and  begged 


The  Heart  of  the  Desert  177 

to  differ  with  me :  "It  was  cool ;  yesterday  it  was 
hot,  130°  in  the  shade." 

In  the  vicinity  of  Indio  one  finds  a  palm  forest,  one 
of  the  things  worth  seeing ;  a  forest  of  tall  fan  palms, 
which  appear  to  be  indigenous  to  the  locality,  reaching 
down  into  Lower  California.  They  are  found  growing 
in  the  narrow  heated  canons,  their  roots  in  the  hot  seep- 
ing water ;  others  out  in  the  wash  of  the  canon's  mouth 
— splendid  examples  of  a  desert  forest  which  appeal  to 
the  imagination  and  the  lover  of  the  picturesque.  Not 
long  in  the  past  this  entire  area  has  been  under  water ; 
an  old  sea-beach  may  be  traced  a  long  distance  from 
near  Yuma  to  Indio,  and  a  water  line  can  be  seen  along 
the  base  of  the  mountains  that  form  the  barrier  between 
the  desert  and  the  garden  spot  of  Southern  California. 

Nearer  the  delta  the  land  is  being  reclaimed,  and 
ranches  and  farms  laid  out,  and  with  the  Midas-like 
touch  of  water  the  desert  sands  turn  to  gold;  and  where 
once  sandy  dunes  drifted  to  and  fro,  vast  fields  of  grain 
lie  rippling  in  the  sun,  telling  of  the  desert  reclaimed 
and  homes  where  some  one  may  yet  sing  with  Byron, 

Oh!  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister — 

That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her. 


-'-:~ 


Chapter  XIII 

El  Camino  Real 

(Coaching  or  Automobiling) 

LOS     ANGELES    was    the    starting-point,    the 
centre    of  radiation  for  many  of  our  coaching 
and  riding  trips  to  Santa  Barbara  and  beyond 
and  through  Southern  California  to  the  adobes  of  Tia 
Juana.     To  see  Southern  California  effectively  the  trip 
should   be  made    by  coach,  motor-car,  carriage,  or  on 
horseback.    Excellent  roads  extend  all  over  the  country, 
inviting  one  to  the  old  ranches,  canons,  ruins,  and  Mis- 
sions which  cannot  be  seen  from  car  windows. 

It  was  a  mere  conceit,  perhaps,  but  remembering  that 
in  the  olden  time  pilgrims  and  travellers  in  this  fair 
country  found  a  Mission  at  the  end  of  nearly  every 
day's  journey  from  San  Francisco  to  San  Diego  and  be 
yond,  along  El  Camino  Real,  the  King's  Highway,  we 
determined  to  emulate  the  ancient  custom  and  go  over 
the  old  roads ;  not  on  horseback,  as  did  the  old  Cali- 
fornian,  but  in  a  four-in-hand,  making  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible a  Mission  every  night,  seeking  the  hospitality  of 
its  secularised  walls  in  reverential  fashion,  as  did  the 

181 


Life  in  the  Open 

traveller  of  the  last  century,  yet  receiving  it  for  obvious 
reasons,  perchance,  at  the  neighbouring  inn. 

The  plan  had  not  only  an  essence  of  romance  and 
novelty  to  commend  it,  but  was  within  the  possibilities, 
the  ecclesiastical  chain  being  as  follows,  beginning  at 
Santa  Barbara: 

Santa  Barbara  Mission,  founded  in  1786,  by  coach 
to  the  Mission  of  San  Buenaventura  (i  783).  From  San 
Buenaventura  to  Mission  of  San  Fernando  (1797),  then 
to  the  Mission  of  San  Gabriel  Archangel  (i  771).  From 
San  Gabriel  to  San  Juan  Capistrano  (1776).  From  San 
Juan  to  the  trio  of  Missions  of  Pala,  Rincon,  and  Pauma. 
Pala  to  San  Luis  Rey  de  Francia  (1798).  San  Luis 
Rey  to  the  Mission  of  San  Diego  de  Acala  (1769). 
Not  only  could  these  Missions  be  reached  in  a  single 
day's  journey,  but  inns  or  hotels  were  available.  This 
with  the  guaranty  of  fair  roads,  good  weather,  and 
choice  scenery  made  the  trip  one  of  more  than  pleasant 
anticipation. 

The  four-in-hand  was  not  running  on  time ;  there 
were  no  relays  to  be  met ;  hence  the  attempt  to  make  a 
new  Mission  every  night  was  not  directly  adhered  to, 
though  the  ecclesiastical  route  was  followed  literally  as 
outlined,  with  many  an  interesting  side-trip  to  cafton, 
seashore,  and  mountain  range.  Under  such  inspiration 
a  jolly  party  bowled  toward  the  Santa  Barbara  Mission 
one  morning,  and  reined  up  under  its  ancient  walls. 
The  "  outfit "  was  a  modernised  California  coach,  the 
plethoric  boot  packed  with  hampers  of  good  things ; 


El  Camino  Real 

rifles  for  the  black-tailed  deer,  and  shotguns  for  the 
valley  quail,  while  four  or  five  grey-  and  stag-hounds 
following  were  suggestive  of  hare  and  coyote  as  game. 

According  to  a  calendar  which  the  young  lady  on 
the  box  seat  carried,  it  was  that  thoroughly  uncomfort- 
able period  midway  the  Christmas  holidays  and  the  first 
of  March,  when  in  the  East  thaws  and  violent  freezes  fol- 
low each  other  like  avenging  Nemeses ;  yet  here  nature 
seemed  conspiring  to  impugn  the  testimony  of  the  rec- 
ords. It  was  winter  as  the  seasons  go,  but  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  midsummer  in  Southern  California.  The 
cool  breeze  was  coming  in  from  the  Pacific,  sweeping 
up  the  mesa  of  the  old  town,  bowling  over  acres  of 
golden  poppies,  robbing  the  field  of  wild  forget-me-nots 
of  its  perfume  and  carrying  it  over  the  Mission  wall,  to 
mingle  with  the  floral  incense  of  the  old  church  garden. 
The  driver  called  it  a  winter  day ;  yet  as  he  flecked  his 
leaders  and  the  horn  gave  an  answering  note  to  the 
meadow  lark  on  the  Mission  wall,  there  was  not  one  in 
the  party  who  really  believed  that  the  Ides  of  March 
were  near  at  hand. 

From  the  highlands  about  the  Mission  the  finest  view 
of  Santa  Barbara  is  obtained.  The  Pacific  is  before  us, 
stretching  away  to  illimitable  distance,  the  crescent- 
shaped  beach  facing  the  south,  from  which  reaches  back 
the  intervening  town  with  its  broad  streets  lined  with 
palm,  pepper,  magnolia,  and  a  wealth  of  semi-tropical 
plants  and  trees.  To  the  north  lies  the  Santa  Ynez 
Valley,  the  blue  ocean  on  one  side,  the  mountains  on 


184  Life  in  the  Open 

the  other,  while  to  the  south  and  east  deep  groves  of 
orange,  lemon,  lime,  and  olive  tell  of  El  Montecito  and 
Carpenteria. 

It  was  at  the  Mission  that  the  complete  supremacy 
of  man  was  demonstrated,  as,  after  interviewing  the 
courteous  Fathers,  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  were  in- 
vited into  the  Mission  garden,  while  the  ladies  rested  in 
the  outer  hall,  consumed  with  curiosity.  No  woman 
— with  one  or  two  notable  exceptions,  as  the  Princess 
Louise — had  ever  entered  the  garden,  so  it  was  said ; 
and  the  old  gardener,  gowned  and  cowled,  laughingly 
told  of  the  pretexts  adopted  by  fair  visitors,  who  evi- 
dently believed  that  the  grim  walls  concealed  some 
deep  and  unfathomable  mystery. 

The  Mission  of  Santa  Barbara  is  the  only  one  that 
has  never  been  out  of  Franciscan  control,  and  is  one  of 
the  finest  in  the  State,  standing  as  it  did  nearly  a  century 
ago  when  its  bells  rang  the  Angelus,  their  echoes  calling 
the  faithful  up  the  deep  cafions  of  the  Santa  Ynez. 

The  Father  told  us  of  the  ancient  splendours  of  the 
church,  of  its  inception  by  Junipero  Serra,  its  erection 
in  1786  by  Father  Antonio  Paterna,  and  detailed  its 
completion  in  1794.  In  1810-12,  he  said,  it  was  almost 
shattered  by  earthquakes,  but  was  ultimately  rebuilt,  then 
torn  down  and  the  present  building  founded  in  1820. 
We  entered  the  old  dormitories,  the  workshops  once 
filled  with  native  artisans,  stood  on  the  red-tiled  roof, 
and  looked  down  upon  the  broad,  arched  corridors 
where  the  Fathers  walk  and  read ;  strolled  among  the 


El  Camino  Real 

ancient  graves  of  the  founders,  and  tarried  in  the 
quaintly  decorated  chapel,  while  the  Father  whispered 
the  history  of  the  treasures  upon  the  walls.  He  told  us 
of  the  struggles  of  the  Fathers;  the  acts  of  the  Mexi- 
can Governor  in  1827,  resulting  in  the  destruction  of 
the  revenues  of  the  Mission  ;  of  the  desecration  that 
accompanied  the  demand  for  secularisation,  and  various 
efforts  at  confiscation.  In  1833  tne  government  suc- 
ceeded, and  the  Missions  were  converted  into  secular 
curacies.  Later  the  Missions  fell  into  the  hands  of 
commissioners,  and  in  1834  the  public  literally  seized  the 
Mission  lands.  We  listened  to  the  story  of  the  succes- 
sive phases  of  the  struggle,  of  the  times  under  Don 
Juan  Alvarado,  of  the  attempt  in  1840  to  restore  the 
Missions  to  power,  and  of  the  act  of  Pope  Gregory 
XVI.,  in  the  same  year,  making  California  a  bishopric, 
and  many  other  moves  resulting  to-day  in  the  Missions 
being,  instead  of  centres  of  ecclesiastical  power,  more 
like  simple  parish  churches. 

This  Mission  as  a  whole  is  a  delight  to  the  artistic 
eye.  The  cell-like  rooms,  the  ancient  and  worn  stone 
pavements,  the  crude  doors  with  huge  iron  trappings, 
the  high  windows,  enormous  walls,  the  odour  of  sanctity, 
all  tend  to  complete  a  historical  picture  of  deep  in- 
terest. Without,  the  commanding  front  with  its  two 
towers  of  stone  and  adobe  pierced  with  arched  doors, 
the  lofty  fa9ade  with  its  finely  cut  columns,  the  time- 
worn  statues  of  the  saints  above,  make  the  pile  at  once 
striking  and  impressive.  No  little  architectural  and 


Life  in  the  Open 

artistic  skill  was  shown  by  the  builders.  Especially 
does  the  stone  fountain  in  front,  with  its  round  basin 
and  quaint  carvings,  attract  the  eye.  Near  here  was  an 
adobe  bath-house,  in  the  fa$ade  of  which  a  lion's  head 
was  carved,  from  which  once  poured  the  clear  water  of 
the  Santa  Ynez.  It  is  evident  that  the  makers  of  the 
Mission  were  men  of  deep  religious  and  artistic  feeling ; 
and  the  old  building  reflects  credit  upon  their  memory. 

But  we  have  tarried  too  long.  A  number  of  dark- 
eyed  penitents  are  waiting  for  the  Father  by  the  con- 
fessional, and  after  handing  an  ancient  nail  or  spike  of 
the  old  Mission  as  a  memento  to  one  lady,  a  photograph 
of  the  church  and  some  flowers  from  the  garden  to 
others,  the  Father  disappears  to  banish  the  past  in  the 
sins  of  the  present  generation. 

Santa  Barbara  reminds  one  of  some  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean resorts,  and  has  been  compared  to  Nice  ;  but  the 
comparison  is  hardly  just.  The  American  resort  has  the 
advantage  in  climate,  is  always  delightful,  indeed  per- 
fect, winter  or  summer.  Its  winter  mean  is  54.29°,  that 
of  Nice  47.88°;  its  summer  mean  67.71°,  that  of  Nice 
72°;  its  difference  between  winter  and  summer  13°  to 
24°  of  Nice.  Again,  the  Barbarian  of  the  Saints,  as  the 
young  lady  on  the  box  seat  calls  our  host,  tells  us  that 
the  hot,  burning  winds  of  Southern  Europe  are  never 
known  here,  that  this  is  the  only  true  paradise,  the  real 
land  of  dolce  far  niente,  the  home  of  the  gods. 

The  quiet  old  town,  with  its  fine  hotels,  long  asphalt- 
paved  streets,  its  miles  of  gardens  and  splendid  drives ; 


Pampas  Grass,  San  Diego,  on  El  Camino  Real. 


El  Camino  Real  187 

shops  for  the  sale  of  curiosities ;  its  Chinatown,  where 
the  odour  of  opium  and  firecrackers  mingles  with  the 
perfume  of  flowers ;  its  long  wharf,  yachts,  and  vessels, 
all  offer  inducements  to  tarry.  Parts  of  Spanish-town 
still  remain  inviolate,  and  we  are  told  of  the  glories  of 
the  old  De  la  Guerra  mansion,  where  Richard  H.  Dana 
witnessed  a  marriage  festival  in  1836.  The  family  is 
still  living  in  Santa  Barbara.  We  buy  a  reboso,  an 
Indian  basket,  from  an  old  Mexican  woman,  "  for  luck," 
the  driver  puts  it,  and  are  away  up  the  fine,  hard  road 
to  La  Patera,  where  the  Indians  buried  their  stone 
mortars  and  household  gods  in  the  long  ago. 

Near  here  we  drive  through  the  fine  ranches  of 
Hollister,  Cooper,  and  Stowe,  the  former  known  as 
"  Glen  Annie."  "  Ellwood,"  the  Cooper  homestead,  is 
famous  for  its  olive  orchard,  the  largest  in  Southern 
California,  also  in  America,  with  works  the  perfection  of 
neatness,  over  which  the  courteous  host  takes  us.  The 
home  is  embowered  with  flowers  from  every  clime,  a 
garden  the  year  round.  From  here  we  pass  for  several 
miles  up  the  picturesque  little  canon  by  the  side  of  a 
stream  and  beneath  trees  that  were  young  in  the  days 
of  the  Franciscan  padres,  and,  finally,  at  the  head  of  the 
ravine,  halt  for  a  consideration  of  the  well-filled  hampers 
which  the  coach  is  made  to  disgorge — for  this  is  a 
feature  of  coaching  in  Southern  California  ;  the  mid- 
day meal  is  carried,  and  a  picnic  is  enjoyed  in  some 
nook  or  corner  that  may  meet  the  eye. 

From  this  region  numerous  trips  can  be  made  to 


i88  Life  in  the  Open 

glens  and  eyries  which  in  their  beauty  compare  favour- 
ably  with  those  of  European  resorts  :  the  Gaviota  Pass, 
the  Valley  of  the  Santa  Ynez,  the  mountains  rising  to 
the  east,  while  to  the  west  the  ocean  is  seen  here  and 
there,  a  reminder  of  the  extremes  that  Santa  Barbara 
affords.  Here  the  lover  of  the  picturesque  may  spend 
weeks  without  exhausting  its  beauty.  But  we  are  off 
again,  rolling  down  to  the  beach,  with  its  long  line 
of  shining  sands,  calling  to  mind  New  England  shores. 
But  here,  they  tell  us,  the  water  on  this  February  day 
has  a  temperature  of  sixty-one  degrees,  about  that  of 
Newport  in  June.  Tourists  are  enjoying  the  surf  ;  the 
splendid  palm-lined  beach  is  gay  with  riders,  while  the 
castellated  rocks  on  the  north  are  dotted  with  strollers 
from  the  big  mission-like  hotel  near  by.  Over  beyond 
the  blue  stretch  of  water  that  forms  the  Santa  Barbara 
Channel  rise  the  Channel  Islands. 

We  could  have  reached  the  Ojai  Valley,  thirty-seven 
miles  south-east  from  Santa  Barbara,  through  the 
Cacitas  Pass,  but  preferred  to  go  by  the  Mission  of  San 
Buenaventura,  thirty  miles  away.  This  took  us  through 
the  delightful  suburbs  of  El  Montecito — with  its  hot 
sulphur  springs  far  up  the  caflon,  thirteen  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  where  the  Indians  resorted  years  ago, — by 
nooks  and  corners  of  the  Santa  Ynez,  the  San  Marcos 
Pass,  and  the  Painted  Cave  and  Rocks. 

The  stage  road  winds  along  the  edge  of  the  shore, 
gleaming  sandy  crescents  succeeding  one  another  in 
endless  variety.  Through  the  orange  groves  of  El 


El  Camino  Real  189 

Montecito  we  enter  Carpenteria  and  its  slopes.  Here  a 
peculiar  patch  of  black  ground  being  ploughed  by  a 
Mexican  catches  the  eye  of  a  scientific  coacher,  who 
pronounces  it  the  site  of  an  ancient  Indian  village.  The 
Mexican  stops  work  as  the  coach  slows  up,  leans 
upon  his  plough,  and  while  rolling  a  cigarette  senten- 
tiously  answers  the  questions  thrown  at  him  singly  and 
in  pairs.  After  much  solicitation,  he  finally  enters  the 
adobe  near  at  hand  and  returns  with  some  of  the  results 
of  his  ploughing,  ancient  relics  turned  up  in  former 
barley  seasons :  a  stone  mortar,  some  abalone  shells, 
the  holes  stopped  with  asphaltum,  the  dishes  of  the 
Indians,  bits  of  soapstone  with  perforations,  arrow- 
heads of  flint,  and  a  flute  that  some  ancient  had  manu- 
factured from  the  wing  bone  of  a  bird.  It  is  rudely 
made,  and  ornamented  with  bits  of  pearl  from  the 
abalone.  Beads  of  shell  and  a  flint  knife  complete  the 
treasures  of  this  collection. 

"  Who  were  these  people  ?  "  asks  some  one. 

"  No  sabe,  sefior,"  puffs  the  Mexican. 

He  might  have  said  that  his  house  was  resting  on  a 
veritable  kitchen-midden,  a  town-site  of  the  early  Cali- 
fornians,  which  Juan  Rodriguez  Cabrillo  discovered 
when  he  sailed  up  the  Santa  Barbara  Channel  nearly 
three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  He  might  have  said 
that  the  adventurer  found  this  land  the  site  of  many 
villages,  where  once  lived  thousands  of  happy  natives. 
He  might  have  told  us  that  his  ancestors  were  of  the 
party,  and  that  they  buried  the  great  captain,  Cabrillo, 


190  Life  in  the  Open 

on  San  Miguel,  where  he  still  sleeps.  But  in  point  of 
fact  he  said  nothing  and  looked  in  stolid  amazement  at 

o 

the  volubility  and  learning  of  the  American  whip  of  the 
strange  vehicle. 

Our  road  follows  the  beach  through  Carpenteria, 
past  graceful  sand-dunes  where  rich  grasses  grow,  where 
the  faint  track  of  sea-birds  is  seen  and  the  roar  of  the 
surf  breaks  gently  on  the  ear.  Beyond  lies  the  ocean, 
as  smooth  as  a  disk  of  steel,  with  beds  of  kelp  floating 
lightly  on  its  surface — the  resting  place  of  the  gull  and 
otter;  and  here  the  sail  of  a  Chinese  junk,  the  green 
slopes  of  the  Santa  Ynez  on  the  other  side,  and  little 
caftons  reaching  down  to  the  shore,  playing  a  veritable 
game  of  hide-and-seek  with  the  gleaming  ocean.  Now 
an  adobe  ranges  into  view,  with  its  barren,  well-worn 
door-yard,  its  ramada,  and  garlands  of  chillies,  red  and 
glaring,  its  hairless  dogs,  and  dark-eyed  children  who 
have  never  seen  a  red  and  yellow  coach  and  who  stare 
hard  and  long,  silent  at  the  melody  of  the  horn. 

Down  we  plunge  into  the  little  arroyo,  splashing 
across  the  clear  brook  that,  with  its  sparkling  sands  and 
dashing  trout,  comes  gurgling  down  under  the  arcades  of 
alder  and  willow ;  up  the  bank  with  a  rush,  winding 
through  a  grove  of  live  oaks  where  the  tap-tap  of  the 
woodpecker  echoes,  and  the  gray  squirrel  flashes  his  fox- 
like  tail ;  out  into  the  fields  again,  on  to  the  road  lined 
with  yellow  violets,  bluebells,  cream-cups,  daisies,  pop- 
pies, bluettes,  and  other  wild  flowers  that  seem  to  reach 
far  up  to  the  manzanita  forests  of  the  upper  slopes. 


Palms  of  the  Mission  of  San  Fernando  Rey  on  the  King's  Highway. 


El  Camino  Real  191 

From  the  hillside  comes  the  note  of  the  valley  quail, 
then  the  roar  of  its  wings.  The  nest  of  the  wood-rat 
hangs  on  a  limb  ;  the  air  is  filled  with  insect  life  dancing 
lightly  in  the  sunbeams,  all  on  this  winter  day. 

And  so  on  we  go,  over  the  same  road  that  Father 
Junipero  Serra  and  Governor  Felipe  de  Neve  with  their 
guard  of  sixty  soldiers  passed  when  marching  to  found 
the  Presidio  of  Santa  Barbara  one  hundred  and  nine 
years  ago,  and  with  a  final  burst  of  speed,  ride  bravely 
into  the  old  town  of  San  Buenaventura,  cross  the  shal- 
low river  that  creeps  lazily  out  from  the  grove  of  alders 
and  willows,  round  the  big  hill  that  divides  the  town, 
and  passing  the  shadows  of  the  old  Mission  of  San 
Buenaventura  seek  the  more  material  comforts  of  the 
Inn  of  the  Roses. 

In  and  about  San  Buenaventura  there  are  rides  of 
no  little  interest.  The  Ojai  Valley  is  but  a  few  miles 
away  along  a  seductive  trout  stream  that  successfully 
woos  the  coacher;  but  the  old  Mission  is  the  pilce  de 
resistance,  and  one  cannot  contemplate  these  old  piles, 
almost  the  only  historic  ruins  in  America,  without  being 
impressed  with  the  energy,  courage,  and  faith  of  Padre 
Junipero  Serra  and  his  followers,  who  built  this  chain  of 
Missions  up  and  down  the  coast  for  six  hundred  miles ; 
a  region  infested  with  Indians,  and  at  that  time  with 
wild  and  dangerous  animals. 

The  San  Buenaventura  Mission,  which  was  founded 
in  1783,  is  small,  but  well  preserved.  It  has  a  large 
belfry  or  bell  tower,  a  large  enclosure,  but  lacks  the 


192  Life  in  the  Open 

more  pretentious  Moorish  architecture  which  character- 
ises some  of  the  other  Missions.  Yet  the  padre  tells  us 
that  early  in  the  nineteenth  century  this  was  one  of  the 
wealthiest  of  this  great  chain,  possessing  vast  flocks  and 
herds  under  Padre  Francisco  Dumetz  and  Vincente  de 
Santa  Maria. 

From  San  Buenaventura  the  road  pitches  down  into 
a  wide  valley,  and  we  ride  by  the  sea,  which  has  a  long 
fine  beach  from  which  can  be  seen  the  jagged  points  of 
Anacapa  Island.  We  pass  through  Hueneme,  then  turn 
to  the  east,  passing  Camulos  and  so  on  to  San  Fernando. 

Up  through  a  delightful  country  we  roll  along,  stop- 
ping for  the  night  at  Santa  Paula,  the  following  day 
reaching  San  Fernando  Valley,  and  the  Mission  of  that 
name,  that  has  long  been  one  of  the  attractive  ruins  of 
the  State.  Here  we  see  some  of  the  tallest  palms  in 
Southern  California,  the  remains  of  the  old  Mission  olive 
grove,  and  a  long  line  of  splendid  Moorish  arches  and 
tiled  roofs,  preserved  from  utter  destruction  by  the  Land- 
marks Club  of  Los  Angeles.  The  padre  tells  us  that 
Lasuen  dedicated  the  Mission  in  1797,  and  that  the 
present  ruin  dates  from  1806,  being  named  after  King 
Fernando  III.  of  Spain,  who  was  canonised  in  1671  by 
the  Pope. 

At  this  time  of  the  year  San  Fernando  is  a  garden. 
The  chaparral  is  rich  in  greens,  and  the  songs  of  the 
mocking-bird  and  the  meadow-lark  are  heard  on  every 
side.  Rising  to  the  south  are  the  green  slopes  of  the 
Sierra  Santa  Monica  Mountains  that  finally  leap  into 


El  Camino  Real  193 

the  sea.  The  old  Mission  is  deserted.  Bats  flit  about 
its  beautiful  arches  at  night ;  the  strong  west  wind 
sweeps  through  its  adobe  rooms  unobstructed,  and  one 
tries  in  vain  to  reconstruct  the  principality  of  eighty 
years  ago.  Yet  it  was  the  centre  of  great  groves  and 
extensive  vineyards  ;  it  had  flocks  and  herds,  and  $90,- 
ooo  in  cash ;  but  in  1846  it  was  sold  by  Governor  Pio 
Pico  for  $14,000  to  carry  on  the  war  against  the  United 
States.  San  Fernando  is  still  picturesque  in  its  de- 
cadence ;  the  resort  of  artists,  poets,  and  lovers  of  the 
beautiful. 

Los  Angeles  is  but  a  few  miles  distant,  but  the 
coach  keeps  to  the  left,  along  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra 
Madre,  and  enters  the  Canada  through  a  series  of 
fine  ranches,  and  so  passes  out  into  the  San  Gabriel, 
crossing  the  Arroyo  Seco  above  Pasadena,  a  charming 
and  modern  city,  the  centre  of  tourist  interest  in  South- 
ern California,  abounding  in  fine  hotels  and  drives,  and 
remarkable  for  its  climate,  winter  and  summer,  the  best 
test  of  which  is  the  long  list  of  well-known  men  and 
women  of  the  East  who  have  made  their  home  here. 

Pasadena  is  but  four  miles  from  the  wall  of  the 
Sierra  Madre,  nine  miles  from  Los  Angeles,  and  tl  ree 
from  the  old  Mission  of  San  Gabriel,  in  the  town  of  that 
name.  Of  all  the  valleys  of  Southern  California,  the 
San  Gabriel  is  the  richest,  the  most  beautiful ;  and  climb- 
ing to  the  summit  of  Raymond  Hill,  which  the  genius  of 
Walter  Raymond  has  made  famous,  the  coachers  are 
confronted  with  what  is  doubtless  one  of  the  most 
13 


i94  Life  in  the  Open 

mnarkable  spectacles  in  the  world, — winter  and  semi- 
tropic  summer  face  to  face.  The  Sierra  Madre  are 
white  with  snow,  a  long  range  as  high  as  Mount  Wash- 
ington, and  farther  to  the  east  Mount  San  Antonio,  ten 
thousand  feet  in  air,  and  Mount  San  Jacinto,  still  higher, 
— domes  of  purest  white  against  the  azure  of  the 
cloudless  sky. 

Drop  the  eyes  and  they  rest  upon  the  garden  spot 
of  this  country :  thousands  of  acres  in  the  highest  state 
of  cultivation,  groves  of  orange,  lemon,  olive,  walnut, 
and  nearly  every  fruit ;  great  vineyards ;  groves  of 
eucalyptus  and  live  oak,  telling  the  story  of  life  in 
the  open  in  a  land  of  balmy  airs  and  eternal  summer. 
Here  are  some  of  the  notable  California  ranches,  as 
Sunny  Slope  and  Santa  Anita,  with  their  fine  reaches 
of  forests,  their  lofty  palms,  and  seemingly  endless  lines 
of  orange  trees,  ranch  houses  embowered  in  tropical  ver- 
dure, and  the  ranch  property  reaching  away  for  miles 
toward  the  distant  sea. 

The  coach  rolls  through  great  vineyards,  and  every- 
where evidences  of  the  highest  cultivation  are  evident. 
Later,  at  the  vintage,  gangs  of  Mexicans,  men  and 
women,  can  be  seen  picking  and  filling  their  boxes  with 
fragrant  Mission  grapes ;  no  more  delightful  region  for 
coaching  or  automobiling  can  be  imagined  than  this. 

Pasadena  is  a  city  of  25,000  inhabitants,  recruited 
from  among  the  wealthy  and  cultivated  people  of  the 
East,  and  is  said  to  be  the  wealthiest  town  of  its  size  in 
the  world.  It  stands  in  the  literal  heart  of  an  orange 


An  Avenue  of  Palms,  Los  Angeles. 


El  Camino  Real  I95 

grove,  and  in  winter  is  a  garden  environed  by  snow- 
capped  mountains,  and  its  present  size  and  fame  are  due 
to  its  beauty  of  situation  and  its  singularly  perfect  cli- 
mate. Thirty  miles  from  the  ocean,  on  the  slope  of  the 
Sierra,  it  commands  the  sea  :  receives  its  winds  by  day, 
and  mountain  air  by  night.  Pasadena  exemplifies  life 
in  the  open  in  Southern  California.  Its  country  clubs, 
golf  links,  fine  roads  and  drives  for  motor-cars  make  it 
at  once  the  centre  of  delightful  life  in  what  is  fast  be- 
coming a  fashionable  winter  resort  comparable  to  Nice, 
Florence,  or  many  cities  of  the  Riviera,  and  exceeding 
them  all  in  the  perfection  of  its  climate. 

As  the  coach  turns  to  the  south  and  passes  through 
the  long  orange  groves  something  comes  down  the  wind 
from  far  away, — the  bells  of  San  Gabriel  Archangel, 
the  same  tones  that  rang  out  the  Angelus  years  ago 
and  invited  the  savages  of  the  valley  to  a  better  life. 

There  is  a  variety  in  this  out-of-door  life  that  lends 
an  additional  charm  to  the  country,  seen  from  the  top  of 
a  coach.  The  yellow  splendours  of  the  meadow-lark's 
breast  blaze  for  a  moment  on  the  mesa ;  plumed  quails 
run  into  the  road,  stop  and  eye  us,  then  hurry  along,  with 
nodding  plumes,  to  rise  almost  under  the  leaders'  heads, 
and  fill  the  sleepy  air  with  the  thunder  of  their  wings. 
Early  in  the  morning  cotton-tails,  fluffy  and  tender,  may 
be  seen  darting  in  and  out  among  the  cactus ;  or  in 
some  wash,  in  the  shadow  of  the  sage-brush,  sits  a  long- 
eared  hare,  which  darts  away,  bounding  into  the  air  as 
though  on  springs.  Little  gray  owls  nod  at  you  from 


I96  Life  in  the  Open 

the  fence-top  as  you  pass ;  and  on  the  hillside,  through 
some  carton,  a  monkey-faced  owl  stares  stolidly  and 
refuses  to  move,  charmed  or  fascinated,  mayhap,  by  the 
rattle  and  clank  of  the  coach.  In  the  fields  are  ground- 
squirrels,  living  underground,  and  on  the  edges  of  the 
laguna  blackbirds  make  merry — some  standing  on  the 
backs  of  pigs  and  riding  about.  Rolling  through  the 
chaparral,  the  attractive  paisano  or  road-runner,  with 
fiery  eye,  runs  ahead,  refusing  to  take  to  the  brush, 
until  nearly  caught,  then  rising  and  flying  low  to 
plunge  down  again.  Countless  small  birds  fill  the 
air  with  melody ;  a  big  bluebird  cries  loudly  as  it 
dashes  into  the  wild  lilac  or  sumac ;  and  at  all  the 
ranches  the  finches  or  linnets  swarm,  devouring  the 
fruit,  and  often  silencing  the  rancher  with  their  mar- 
vellous song. 

We  follow  up  the  sound  of  clanking  bells  and  enter 
the  narrow  streets  of  San  Gabriel,  with  its  adobes,  and 
stop  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  Mission  that  to-day  stands 
like  a  fortress  defying  time,  an  imposing  and  picturesque 
monument  to  the  devotion  of  the  early  padres  to  the 
cause  of  Christianity. 

San  Gabriel  Archangel,  which  was  founded  in  1771 
by  Padres  Cambon  and  Angel  Somero,  was  originally 
one  of  the  finest  and  wealthiest  of  the  Missions.  Its 
long  buttressed  building  is  suggestive  of  strength,  and, 
it  is  said,  repelled  many  an  Indian  attack  in  the  early 
days.  It  is  the  second  building  of  the  Mission,  begun 
in  1775  and  finished  about  twenty-five  years  later.  Still 


El  Camino  Real  i97 

to  be  seen  are  remnants  of  the  great  tuna  hedo-e 
that  once  surrounded  the  Mission  property — an  im- 
penetrable barrier  against  enemies. 

The  padre  takes  us  into  various  rooms  in  the  Mis- 
sion, reverently  displays  the  rich  vestments  and  old 
records  in  Padre  Jose  Maria  Zalvidea's  handwriting, 
from  which  we  learn  that  the  first  Indian  was  baptized 
in  1771,  and  in  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  its  history 
over  four  thousand  Indians  were  baptized  there.  San 
Gabriel  once  owned  hundreds  of  acres  and  vast  herds 
of  cattle.  The  belfry  is  picturesque,  and  has  four  bells 
which  still  call  the  faithful  down  the  valley  of  San  Ga- 
briel. The  old  Mission  was  repaired  by  J.  De  Earth 
Shorb,  several  years  ago,  and  is  still  in  use  by  the  peo- 
ple of  the  vicinity,  who,  despite  the  American  invasion, 
cling  to  San  Gabriel  and  its  memories. 

In  all  probability  El  Camino  Real  extended  down 
the  San  Fernando  Valley  to  Los  Angeles,  from  here 
to  San  Gabriel,  then  possibly  through  the  break  in  the 
hills  near  Whittier,  so  leading  to  San  Juan  Capistrano 
Mission.  But  the  coachers  propose  to  diverge  and  reach 
Pala  Mission  by  the  mountain  or  upper  road,  regaining 
the  King's  Highway  upon  the  return  trip  along-shore. 

Down  the  valley,  by  Monrovia,  Duarte,  and  Azusa, 
the  coach  bowls,  passing  through  a  continuous  garden, 
stopping  at  Pomona  for  the  night,  then  on  by  Ontario, 
Cucamonga — famous  for  its  wine, — to  Colton  and  River- 
side with  its  splendid  vistas  of  orange  groves,  its  long 
rows  of  palms  and  magnolias.  We  tarry  in  this  splendid 


198  Life  in  the  Open 

semitropic  garden  a  day  or  two,  and  one  morning  take  the 
road  to  the  south-east  for  Pala.  The  road  carries  us  to 
the  east  of  the  Temescal  range  ;  crossing  the  San  Jacinto 
River,  that  rises  in  the  great  mountains  to  the  north. 

The  night  is  passed  at  Ferris,  and  then  we  move  on 
to  Lake  Elsinore,  backed  against  the  green  hills.  From 
here  the  road  winds  along  to  Murrietta,  at  the  base  of 
the  Santa  Margarita  range,  where  a  great  ranch  rests 
on  the  top  of  the  mountains,  well  repaying  the  climb. 
From  here  a  magnificent  view  over  Riverside  and  San 
Diego  counties  is  had, — mountains  and  hills  every- 
where tumbling  away  toward  the  sea. 

The  drive  from  Murrietta  to  Pala  is  of  much  interest 
and  takes  the  coachers  through  little  valleys  of  wild 
oak,  past  Temecula  and  the  great  ranches  of  Gon- 
zales,  Santa  Rosa,  Pauba,  Wolf,  and  others.  These 
and  the  picturesque  tule  houses  or  huts  of  the  Pachango 
Indians  enliven  the  miles  as  they  slip  away.  Then  there 
are  the  stops  for  luncheon  beneath  great  live  oaks,  new 
vistas  of  old  and  familiar  mountains  that  rise,  colossal 
barriers,  against  the  heated  desert. 

Soon  the  coach  turns  down  the  road  by  Mount 
Palomar,  part  of  which  is  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock. 
Here  is  coaching  indeed,  and  everywhere  are  found 
evidences  of  the  tremendous  forces  of  nature  which 
have  rent  and  torn  this  mountainside.  We  pitch  down 
from  the  highlands  and  come  out  into  the  little  valley 
of  Pala,  in  which  is  Pala  Mission,  and  the  home  of  the 
Warner  Ranch  Indians. 


o 

I 

a 

oJ 
O 

w 

a 

o 


El  Camino  Real  199 

I  first  visited  Pala  and  Pauma,  ten  miles  nearer  the 
desert,  to  see  the  Fiesta  of  San  Luis  Rey.  A  ramdda 
had  been  built,  an  oblong  shelter  of  brush,  arranged 
with  booths  along  the  sides,  in  the  centre  of  which  was 
the  dancing-floor.  All  the  country  people,  the  first 
families  and  all  the  rest,  for  miles  around,  had  come  in, 
mostly  Mexicans,  and  a  scattering  of  Indians,  who  were 
camping  in  the  vicinity.  During  the  day  there  were 
horse-races  and  games  of  various  kinds.  The  old 
Indians  danced  and  sang,  but  the  chief  display  was  at 
night  when  the  ramdda  was  lighted  with  lanterns.  It 
was  "  on  with  the  dance,  let  joy  be  unconfined,"  in  the 
most  solemn  fashion.  The  ramdda  was  a  miniature 
village.  One  booth  was  a  butcher-shop.  The  owner 
of  the  next  sold  fruit ;  then  came  a  barroom,  where 
"dago  red"  and  poor  whisky  were  retailed.  A  monte 
"  outfit,"  or  the  wheel  of  fortune,  followed,  or  roulette ; 
and  in  the  next  the  national  game  of  poker  was  ex- 
ploited by  several  gentlemen  of  fortune  from  Los 
Angeles. 

As  darkness  grew  apace,  the  young  Mexican  women 
took  seats  around  the  dancing-floor,  and  a  violin  and 
guitar  began  to  pour  forth  the  melodious  strains  of 
La  Paloma.  A  young  man  would  steal  up  behind 
the  woman  of  his  fancy  and  break  a  cascardn  on  her 
raven  locks — they  were  all  raven — and  over  them  would 
fall,  like  snowflakes,  masses  of  gold,  silver,  and  coloured 
paper,  which  had  filled  the  egg.  It  was  a  Spanish 
invitation  to  dance,  and  the  lady  thus  decorated  rose, 


200  Life  in  the  Open 

bespangled  and  blushing,  and  accepted,  the  two  be- 
ginning an  interminable  whirling,  often  confined  to  a 
few  feet.  I  watched  this  bdile  most  of  the  evening,  but 
in  all  that  joyous  period  I  did  not  hear  a  laugh  or  see  a 
smile  ;  surely  the  Mexican  takes  his  pleasure  seriously, 
at  least  at  Pala.  When  the  dance  was  over  the  maiden 
was  released  and  took  her  seat,  the  gallant  going  out  to 
smoke,  play,  or  drink  alone.  Let  us  hope  that  he 
quaffed  to  one  of  the  serious  maidens  left  silent  and 
alone  on  the  floor  of  the  ramdda. 

The  old  chapel  Mission  of  San  Antonio  de  Pala, 
now  an  interesting  ruin,  was  founded  by  Padre  Peyri, 
and  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  crude  early  Mission. 
The  long  chapel  is  of  stone  or  adobe,  and  contains  a 
life-size  statue  of  San  Antonio  de  Pala  ;  also  one  of  St. 
Louis,  King  of  France,  which  is  borne  up  and  down  the 
plaza  on  feast  days  by  the  devout  Indians.  Pala  was 
founded  in  1816,  and  differs  from  all  the  Missions  along 
the  King's  Highway  in  having  a  disconnected  or 
isolated  belfry  which  stands  out  distinct,  alone. 

From  Pala  the  road  turns  to  the  west,  and  we  follow 
the  creek  toward  the  sea.  It  is  impossible  to  convey 
an  idea  of  the  charm  of  riding  through  this  land  of 
dreams  in  the  dead  of  winter.  The  country  is  carpeted 
in  tender  greens ;  great  masses  of  star-eyed  flowers 
cover  acres,  and  roll  away  like  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
lost  in  the  distance.  Here  the  red  of  painters-brush 
lends  a  flush  to  the  mesa,  and  the  air,  soft  as  velvet, 
fans  the  cheek,  an  elixir  of  health.  The  flute-like  sono- 


El  Camino  Real 


20 1 


of  the  meadow-lark  comes  with  ringing  notes  from 
every  mesa;  among  the  eucalyptus  leaves,  long  and 
fragrant,  the  golden  oriole  is  singing,  and  in  the  live-oak 
grove  are  heard  the  tender  notes  of  the  mourning  dove. 
The  sun  has  a  golden  radiance,  the  sky  is  azure,  but 
not  more  blue  than  the  distant  sea  that  gleams  brightly 
somewhere  far  down  the  cafton,  where  wild  geese  dot 
the  laguna,  and  sand-hill  cranes  stand  like  sentinels 
along  the  tall  sea  grasses. 

We  pass  the  San  Luis  Rey  River,  Fallbrook,  and 
finally  the  coach  rolls  into  San  Luis  Rey  de  Francia, 
and  is  again  on  the  King's  Highway,  as  in  all  proba- 
bility it  once  ran  up  and  down  the  coast,  having  made 
the  inland  tour  as  described.  San  Luis  Rey,  while  a 
ruin,  is  a  sumptuous  pile,  and  originally  was  one  of  the 
finest  Missions  in  Southern  California.  It  was  dedi- 
cated in  1 798  by  President  Lasuen  and  Padres  Santiago 
and  Peyri.  Contemplating  the  ruin  to-day,  it  is  difficult 
to  believe  that  the  Mission  once  owned  200,000  acres  of 
land,  over  40,000  head  of  cattle,  and  raised  yearly 
20,000  bushels  of  grain,  not  to  mention  the  making  of 
200  barrels  of  wine. 

San  Luis  Rey  was  a  principality  in  every  sense,  and  the 
traveller  along  the  King's  Highway  years  ago  received 
a  gracious  hospitality  from  the  padres,  who  blazed  the 
trail  of  civilisation  from  Mexico  to  San  Francisco,  and 
beyond,  establishing  a  chain  of  Missions  that  are  monu- 
ments to  their  energy  and  purity  of  purpose.  The 
splendid  pile  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  fifty 


202  Life  in  the  Open 

feet  wide,  and  sixty  feet  high,  its  walls,  like  those  of 
San  Gabriel,  being  four  feet  thick.  A  fine  tower  graces 
the  south  side,  and  is  pierced  for  eight  bells.  The  cor- 
ridor has  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  arches.  Its  fine 
dome,  its  groined  arches,  the  Byzantine  pulpit,  the  long 
corridors,  appeal  to  the  imagination,  and  make  the  old 
Mission  one  of  the  really  beautiful  pictures  of  Southern 
California,  whether  seen  against  the  green  slopes  of 
winter  or  on  the  barren  mesa  in  summer,  when  its  tints 
and  shades  seem  to  blend  with  the  soil. 

The  Mission  has  been  repaired  by  the  Franciscans 
who  now  occupy  it  and  tender  visitors  a  courteous  re- 
ception. They  relate  fascinating  stories  of  the  days  of 
Zalvidea,  of  the  Indians  saved ;  and  one  is  glad  that 
the  old  Mission  is  rehabilitated  and  not  allowed  to  go  to 
decay. 

San  Luis  Rey  is  about  eighty  miles  from  Los  Angeles 
and  four  miles  to  Oceanside,  from  which  the  coach  turns 
away  to  the  south  along  El  Camino  Real,  or  as  near  it 
as  possible ;  a  trail  along  which  Serra  and  hundreds  of 
the  padres  of  old  and  the  soldiers  of  Spain  walked. 
The  run  to  San  Diego  Mission  is  about  forty-seven 
miles  along-shore,  passing  towns  and  hamlets,  through 
great  ranches,  and  over  a  charming  country,  in  its  coat 
of  green.  Off  to  the  east  are  the  San  Ysidro  Mountains 
and  lofty  Cuyamacha  and  Santa  Margarita.  There  are 
countless  little  lagunas  along-shore,  often  filled  with 
ducks.  The  roar  of  the  wings  of  quail  fills  the  air,  and 
the  delights  of  life  in  the  open  are  emphasised  in  the 


w 


El  Camino  Real  203 

very  joy  of  living  in  this  land  of  soft  winds  and  perfumed 
air.  Then  there  is  the  charm  of  the  roads  themselves, 
running  up  over  mounds  of  green,  winding  down  into 
little  canons  that  tell  of  the  sea  ;  not  always  smooth  or 
like  a  real  King's  Highway,  but  full  of  promise  and  pos- 
sibility, and  consistent  in  the  realisation.  Now  we  are 
led  by  a  long-necked  paisano  that  paces  like  ecstatic ; 
now  blocked  by  a  flock  of  quail  that  cry  "  Hands  up  !  " — 
wook-wook-wo — you  can  translate  it  yourself.  There  is 
always  some  siren  of  the  road  to  lure  you  out  into  the 
fields  and  far  away  to  distant  mountains  that  lie  faintly 
on  the  edge  of  the  world  to  the  east. 

We  exchange  opinions  with  the  passers-by  and  the 
owners  of  the  ranches  who  come  out  as  we  pull  up  at 
the  slightest  excuse.  Then  there  is  the  fund  of  wisdom 
drawn  from  the  country  store,  and  its  habitues,  all  add- 
ing to  the  charm  of  coaching  or  automobiling  in  the 
land  of  the  setting  sun. 

Slowly  we  move  down  the  coast ;  now  crossing  some 
little  river-bed  near  the  sea,  again  high  on  the  mesa ; 
stopping  at  Carlsbad — a  strange  name  for  a  California 
King's  Highway  ;  at  Encenitas  and  Del  Mar,  which  are 
better,  enjoying  the  fine  beaches,  the  quail  and  duck 
shooting;  and  one  fine  day  we  reach  the  end  or  the  be- 
ginning of  El  Camino  Real — the  Presidio  of  San  Diego. 

Here  is  the  first  of  the  Missions  of  Upper  Califor- 
nia, founded  by  Padre  Junipero  Serra  in  1769,  and  while 
once  rich  and  prosperous  it  is  a  complete  and  sad  ruin 
to-da,y ;  adobe  walls  and  old  palms  alone  tell  the  story 


204  Life  in  the  Open 

of  the  thirty  thousand,  or  more,  head  of  stock  it  once 
owned,  even  as  late  as  1827.  Near  the  old  crumbling 
walls  are  two  ancient  date  palms,  which  must  have  been 
planted  in  the  days  of  Serra. 

Crossing  the  bay  we  roll  up  the  fine  road  to  Co- 
ronado.  San  Diego  is  a  delightful  country  for  coach- 
ing ;  there  are  good  roads  everywhere  and  climate  of  the 
perfect  variety.  We  go  to  Tia  Juana  and  cross  the 
line ;  then  to  La  Jolla  and  the  home  of  theosophy ; 
spend  delightful  hours  in  the  famous  patio  and  garden  of 
Coronado — which  may  be  considered  the  beginning  of 
El  Camino  Real  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1905.  They 
will  show  you  at  San  Diego  the  man  who  came  to  stay 
a  day  and  who  refused  to  leave  under  any  circumstances. 
He  telegraphed  for  his  family,  and  at  eighty  is  growing 
up  with  the  country.  We  easily  see  how  it  is  possible. 

The  return  to  Los  Angeles,  127  miles  north,  is  over 
the  King's  Highway  as  near  as  we  can  make  it,  and 
about  forty  miles  from  San  Diego  we  dip  down  into  the 
opening  of  a  river  or  caflon  in  Orange  County  and  fol- 
low it  up  to  the  old  Mission  of  San  Juan  Capistrano, 
which  stands  on  high  land  with  the  Santiago  range  be- 
hind it  and  lofty  cliffs  or  mesas  between  it  and  the  sea. 
We  follow  the  caflon  slowly,  passing  through  ranches  of 
walnut  and  groves  of  trees,  coming  out  at  San  Juan  with 
its  ranch  houses,  its  quaint  inns,  and  the  fine  old  Mission, 
half  ruin,  where  one  might  wish  to  tarry  indefinitely. 
The  Mission  was  founded  in  1776  by  Junipero  Serra. 
Of  all  the  ancient  piles  this  appeals  most  to  the  poetic 


El  Camino  Real  205 

fancy.  Its  vast  enclosure,  its  long  line  of  arched  corri- 
dors, the  belfry,  its  tiled  roof,  the  artistic  chimney,  the 
great  dome,  half  fallen  in,  razed  to  the  ground  in  the 
earthquake  of  1812,  are  all  fascinating  parts  of  the  whole. 
It  is  impossible  to  more  than  suggest  the  charm  of  San 
Juan,  but  the  coachers  found  it  irresistible  and  tarried  at 
the  little  inn.  Portala,  the  first  Governor  of  California,  is 
said  to  have  named  San  Juan  Capistrano,  having  been 
impressed  by  its  beauties  of  location,  its  restfulness,  its 
tranquillity.  San  Juan  is  not  only  the  land  of  man" ana 
but  of  the  day  after,  and  then  the  air  which  brings  the 
music  of  the  sea  up  the  canon — but  you  must  know  it. 

The  coachers  might  have  kept  on  the  road  to  El 
Toro,  Aliso,  and  so  to  Santa  Ana  over  a  good  and 
fair  country  and  through  a  region  abounding  in  great 
ranches  and  olive  groves,  but  they  left  the  King's 
Highway  again  for  a  detour  along  an  attractive  beach, 
passing  Arch  Rock,  reaching  Laguna,  on  a  little  bay,  at 
the  mouth  of  a  big  cafton  that  comes  plunging  down  to 
the  sea  from  the  upland  mesa.  Here  there  is  a  little 
hamlet  and  hotel,  and  the  coachers  have  converse  with 
a  motor  party  who  have  come  down  from  Santa  Ana  in 
one  hour.  The  climb  up  Laguna  Cafion  to  the  upland 
mesa  and  the  valley  is  one  of  the  features  of  the  trip, 
and  then  en  route  Laguna  affords  some  of  the  best  quail 
shooting  in  California,  while  the  beach  fishing  for  rock 
bass  is  sport  of  no  mean  quality. 

Laguna  has  a  charming  rocky  shore,  to  some  extent 
unusual  on  the  mainland  in  Southern  California.  Here 


206  Life  in  the  Open 

the  sea  takes  on  marvellous  shades  and  tints  in  the  sun- 
light, and  at  sundown  no  place  along-shore  so  appeals 
to  the  artist  as  this  land  of  soft  airs,  sea  odours,  and 
melody. 

One  afternoon  the  coachers  entered  Los  Angeles 
from  the  south.  Perhaps  they  had  lost  the  King's 
Highway ;  perhaps  they  were  in  the  very  footsteps  of 
the  old  padre  who  walked  up  and  down  the  coast,  blaz- 
ing this  trail  in  the  hot  sands  or  yielding  adobe.  Who 
knows?  Then,  or  in  1820,  when  the  old  Plaza  chapel 
was  half  built,  the  town  boasted  of  but  650  souls ;  but 
this  city  up  whose  fine  streets  we  pass  has  over  200,000 
inhabitants  in  1906.  One  can  make  Los  Angeles  in  a 
day  from  San  Juan,  but  the  coach  tarries  at  Santa  Ana, 
Orange,  Tustin,  and  El  Toro,  and  their  famous  walnut 
groves  and  ranches  of  all  kinds  are  visited. 

I  have  hoped  in  this  brief  recital,  an  enumeration  of 
some  of  the  Missions  along  the  old  Highway,  to  suggest 
the  charm  of  coaching  and  automobiling  in  Southern 
California,  and  the  review  of  the  Missions  has  been 
made  merely  to  provide  a  motif  or  objective.  A  small 
party  can  make  such  a  trip  in  a  carriage  or  automobile, 
or  even  on  horseback.  Inns  and  hotels  are  scattered  all 
along  the  old  Highway,  and  the  journey  can  be  made 
with  ease  and  comfort  and  the  true  charm  of  the  country 
in  the  open  enjoyed. 

The  old  Missions  of  California  are  among  the  most 
attractive  features  of  this  country  to  the  average  person. 
They  are  typical  California  ruins  and,  like  wine,  will  in- 
crease in  value  as  time  rolls  on.  Many  of  the  old 


El  Camino  Real  207 

Missions  a  few  years  ago  were  rapidly  going  to  decay,  but 
the  Landmarks  Club  of  Los  Angeles  has  accomplished 
good  work  in  preventing  their  destruction.  The  decay 
of  San  Fernando,  Pala,  San  Juan  Capistrano,  and  San 
Luis  Rey  has  been  arrested,  and  travellers  through  the 
fair  country  will  now  doubtless  have  the  old  Missions 
for  all  time,  as  their  historical  value  is  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated by  the  present  dwellers  in  the  land  of  the  setting 
sun. 

I  have  made  a  coaching  trip  of  another  kind,  in 
which  hotels  were  not  considered.  The  six-in-hand  old- 
fashioned  California  coach  was  followed  or  preceded  by 
a  team  loaded  with  the  camping  outfit.  Captain  William 
Banning  was  the  whip  and  host ;  the  best  driver  of  a 
six-in-hand  in  California.  The  route  was  laid  out  in 
advance  and  six  or  seven  tents  were  pitched  every  night, 
a  cook  and  provisions  being  taken.  This  proved  a  de- 
lightful experience.  Attractive  locations  for  camping 
were  selected  along  the  route,  the  coach  making  the 
run  from  Los  Angeles  to  San  Francisco  in  about  thirty 
days,  no  effort  being  made  to  make  time.  The  follow- 
ing year  this  coach  was  shipped  to  San  Francisco  and 
the  drive  made  about  five  hundred  miles  north  ;  and  on 
another  season  through  the  Yosemite.  California  can 
be  seen  from  a  car  window,  but  to  get  in  complete 
touch  with  the  country  it  should  be  seen  at  close  range, 
either  in  a  coach,  the  saddle,  automobile,  or  carriage. 


in  the 


Chapter  XIV 

Life  in  the  Sierra  Madre 

THE  charm  of  continuous  mountain  life  has  given 
nearly  every  cafton  in  the  lofty  range  one  or 
more  residents.  When  I  first  knew  the  Arroyo 
Seco  Canon,  in  1885,  ^  had  a  dweller  for  nearly  every 
two  miles  of  its  winding  course.  At  the  entrance,  where 
he  could  look  out  into  the  broad  wash,  a  bee-keeper 
lived ;  and  over  on  a  little  mesa  a  miner,  who  some- 
times showed  me  colour.  On  another  mesa  lived  the 
Brown  brothers,  sons  of  John  Brown  of  Harper's  Ferry, 
and  often  as  I  sat  in  their  cabin  at  night  I  heard  stories 
of  the  Underground  Railroad;  and  Owen  Brown,  pacing 
the  floor,  told  of  his  escape  along  the  mountains,  lying 
in  the  brush  for  days,  living  on  corn  and  travelling  by 
night.  The  two  brothers,  Owen  and  Jason,  were  typical 
mountaineers,  and  for  mere  love  of  it  would  go  up  into 
the  mountains,  five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea — for 
what?  "To  look  out  upon  the  earth  and  to  think." 
Owen  Brown  told  me  that  his  father  had  this  habit,  and 
it  was  strong  in  him  ;  a  passion  to  climb  above  the 


211 


212  Life  in  the  Open 

world  and  look  down  upon  its  beauties.  They  built  a 
trail  nearly  to  the  summit,  that  others  might  enjoy  the 
mountains. 

Half-way  up  the  caflon  lived  one  Judge  Brunk,  who 
held  court  where  the  trees  formed  a  green  arcade  over 
the  trout  stream ;  and  ten  or  twelve  miles  beyond  you 
would  come  to  Commodore  Switzer's,  who  kept  a  little 
inn  or  camp  where  one  could  idle  away  the  days  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  mountains. 

This  cafion  was  typical  of  nearly  all  in  the  range ; 
mountain  lovers  being  scattered  up  and  down,  fully 
satisfied  with  the  isolation.  I  remember  asking  one 
if  he  never  wearied  of  the  life  there,  and  his  reply  was 
"  No."  He  referred  to  the  trout  stream  that  ran  by  his 
door,  and  the  voices  of  the  leaves  that  rustled  music  all 
the  day.  He  understood  it  and  loved  the  life,  and  so 
there  are  hundreds  who  like  it  all  the  time,  and  thou- 
sands who  like  it  at  times.  I  once  lived  six  or  eight 
months  in  the  Sierra  Madre,  the  location  being  a  little 
plateau  which  sloped  down,  forming  a  cape  between  three 
deep  and  beautifully  wooded  cations ;  there  was  no  ap- 
proach except  by  descending  one  of  the  caflons  and  cross- 
ing the  stream ;  the  locality  being  particularly  isolated 
during  storms.  The  place  had  many  charms.  The 
upper  portion  was  at  this  time  covered  with  chaparral, 
Adenostoma  always  green  and  in  many  tints,  banks  of 
sage,  groups  of  wild  lilac  and  ironwoods,  while  on 
either  side  the  deep,  abysmal  canon  was  filled  with  these 
and  many  more,  alders,  live  oaks,  sycamores,  cotton- 


Mission  of  San  Buenaventura  on  El  Camino  Real. 


Life  in  the  Sierra  Madre  213 

woods,  and  bays,  forming  a  silent  river  of  green  that 
wound  down  from  the  upper  range,  a  river  sinuous  and 
beautiful.  I  could  see  the  islands  of  the  Pacific  fifty 
miles  away,  and  in  the  foreground  the  ranches,  vineyards, 
and  gardens  of  the  San  Gabriel  Valley,  merging  into 
green  hills  to  the  right,  and  to  the  east  melting  away 
into  other  and  more  distant  valleys,  telling  of  Pomona 
and  Chino. 

Directly  behind  me  rose  the  wall  of  the  Sierra  Madre, 
five  thousand  or  six  thousand  feet  in  height,  the  first 
range  of  the  mountains  that  for  forty  miles  reached 
away  to  the  desert.  I  could  climb  on  to  its  face  in  a 
few  moments  and  lose  myself  in  its  dense  investment 
of  chaparral,  or  I  had  the  choice  of  three  gateways  im- 
mediately at  hand — Millard's  to  the  south,  Negro  im- 
mediately behind,  and  the  Arroyo  Seco  to  the  west.  In 
rainy  seasons  these  canons  bore  raging  streams  of 
water.  Millard's  was  famous  for  its  waterfall,  and  up 
the  arroyo  for  twenty  miles  or  more  there  were  long 
stretches  of  rocky  walls  and  mountain  ranges  merging 
into  dark  and  distant  canons  that  seemed  to  wind  away 
like  living  things,  to  be  lost  in  other  ranges  far  beyond. 
These  mountain  passes  and  the  contiguous  country  be- 
came my  range;  I  learned  to  know  them  well,  and  the 
fascination  of  the  life,  its  absolute  quiet,  its  tranquillity 
and  peace,  the  beauty  of  the  scenery,  took  a  strong  hold 
upon  my  imagination,  and  I  could  understand  how 
some  men  could  turn  their  backs  upon  the  roar  of  great 
cities  and  live  in  the  mountains. 


2H  Life  in  the  Open 

There  was  something  restful  in  the  quiet  of  the  deep 
cafions  ;  the  music  of  the  rippling  stream  as  it  eddied 
around  the  rocks,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  high 
green  walls  and  sinuous,  deep  blue  sky  river  above, 
gleaming  like  a  turquoise  mosaic  through  the  cafion 
branches,  all  appealed  to  the  finer  senses.  The  air  was 
sweet,  pure,  vibrant,  and  cool,  but  never  damp  or  humid, 
and  in  the  summer  months  rarely  too  warm  for  comfort. 
In  the  winter,  after  the  rains,  each  cafion  became  a  garden 
of  ferns  and  brakes,  and  the  great  halls  of  the  mount- 
ains rang  and  reverberated  with  the  resonant  melody  of 
falling,  rushing  water.  Moving  up  the  can" on  into  the 
higher  areas  of  the  range,  its  beauties  increased,  the 
trees  became  larger  and  more  plentiful,  and  the  sinuous 
trail  wound  and  curved  through  pleasant  arcades  of 
green  and  graceful  leaves  which  moved  gently,  softly  in 
the  wind. 

At  every  step  some  new  and  charming  vista  ap- 
peared, now  down  into  some  little  potrtro  where  the 
sun  sifted  in,  bathing  the  ferns  with  a  golden  light,  or 
up  some  dark  green  branching  cafion.  Now  the  trail 
dipped  down,  and  I  looked  far  ahead  into  a  green  tunnel, 
formed  by  the  cafion  trees,  or  again  came  upon  the 
sheer  face  of  the  fern-lined  cliff,  the  abrupt  wall  of  the 
Sierras,  the  trail  rising  higher  and  higher  until  reaching 
a  little  divide  I  could  look  out  on  to  a  great  maze  of 
tumbling  mountains  rolling  away  in  every  direction,  an 
arabesque  of  cafion,  valley,  and  chaparral. 

There  is  something  in  the  smiling  face  of  mountains 


n 
3 

1 
«> 

3 


Life  in  the  Sierra  Madre  215 

that  takes  strong  hold  of  the  fancy  and  imagination. 
There  is  an  impulse  to  stop  and  bare  the  head  before 
the  works  of  the  Infinite  Designer  of  all  these  mount- 
ains, hills,  and  valleys. 

In  following  the  trail  or  the  stream  bed  up  some 
lateral  canon,  there  is  a  constant  change.  Shadows  and 
lights  flit,  come  and  go  ;  now  the  trail  is  through 
some  dark  green  abyss,  then  broadens  out  into  glorious 
sunshine,  or  again  where  deep  shadows  ripple  down 
through  the  interstices  of  the  leaves  and  dance  and  play 
across  the  trail. 

Crossing  the  stream  perhaps  a  hundred  times,  we 
reach  the  upper  range  and  camp  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  forest.  The  arroyo  flows  by  the  camp,  and  up 
from  the  green  abyss  half  a  mile  distant  comes  the 
vibrant  roar  of  the  fall,  the  joyous  melody  of  the  waters 
that  are  plunging  on  to  the  distant  sea. 

I  have  often  walked  down  these  cafions  at  night, 
when  the  tone  of  the  wind  is  different ;  all  day  long  it 
has  been  from  the  sea,  now  it  blows  from  the  mount- 
ains themselves,  and  from  far  away  comes  the  murmur 
of  the  forest  borne  softly  on,  like  the  voice  of  the  ocean. 
Now  it  is  among  the  pine  needles,  rising  and  falling,  a 
harp  of  a  thousand  strings,  the  soul  of  melody  in  its 
cadence.  The  canon  is  deep  in  purple  shades,  and 
where  the  trail  opens  out  the  upper  line  is  marked  by 
stars,  scintillating  in  intense  brilliancy.  The  lateral 
canons  are  of  inky  blackness,  and  the  rush  and  melody 
of  the  water  comes  from  mysterious  and  distant  points. 


216  Life  in  the  Open 

Over  the  divide  is  heard  the  laughing,  yelping  howl  of 
the  coyote  and  perhaps  the  mournful  cry  of  the  mount- 
ain lion.  The  air  is  cool  and  like  velvet  on  the  cheek, 
and  has  a  remarkable  carrying  quality ;  the  falling 
branches,  the  rolling  down  of  mimic  avalanches  or  slides 
of  rock  or  gravel  are  distinctly  heard,  though  far  away, 
and  every  sound  has  its  peculiar  individuality. 

I  have  stood  on  the  high  peaks  at  night  and  watched 
the  fog  come  stealing  in  from  the  sea,  until  it  spread  out 
an  opaline  vestment,  filling  all  the  valleys  with  seas  of 
silver,  through  which  the  tops  of  hills  and  lesser  mount- 
ains protruded  like  islands ;  a  sea  of  marvellous  lights 
and  shades.  In  early  morning  it  is  vermilion  or  violet 
or  silver,  a  splendid  spectacle,  as  though  the  very  air  had 
frozen  and  filled  the  lowlands  with  a  rolling,  billowy  sea 
of  ice  that  stretched  away  to  the  horizon  and  wound  its 
way  around  the  limitless  world.  At  other  times  the  full 
moon  rises  clear  and  beautiful,  flooding  the  valleys  with 
silvery  light,  while  the  darkness  of  the  cafions  is  so  in- 
tensified that  they  can  be  traced  for  miles.  The  valley 
becomes  a  world  of  shadows,  and  weird  shapes  form 
and  re-form,  advance  and  retreat,  as  the  moon  rises  and 
floods  the  land  with  light. 

The  mountains  are  not  always  peaceful.  At  times 
they  are  rent  by  fierce  northers,  when  pandemonium 
seems  to  have  broken  loose,  and  the  scene  is  made  more 
terrible  by  the  fact  that  it  is  blowing  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
Such  a  night  was  clear  and  brilliant;  the  stars,  due  per- 
haps to  the  electrical  condition  of  the  atmosphere,  took 


Life  in  the  Sierra  Madre  217 

on  a  more  brilliant  glow  and  blazed  like  electric  lights. 
The  trees  in  the  upper  ranges  bent  and  bowed  before 
the  blast,  branches  were  beaten  to  the  ground,  and  oc- 
casionally the  crash  of  limb  or  trunk  came  down  the 
wind,  or  the  roar  of  some  avalanche  of  gravel  where 
the  rain  had  loosened  the  soil,  and  sent  it  crashing  down 
the  mountainside.  Reaching  its  climax  with  roar  and 
wild  acclaim,  the  wind  suddenly  ceased,  to  come  on 
again  with  renewed  force.  Such  winds  are  the  most 
dangerous  and  blow  in  a  clear  sky  without  rain  ;  they 
come  in  over  the  ranges  from  the  north,  sweep  in 
through  the  passes,  as  the  Cajon,  and  in  the  form  of 
sand-storms  fill  certain  sections  with  dust  that  is  carried 
miles  out  to  sea,  where  I  have  seen  it  coming  on,  a  vast, 
ominous  deep-red  cloud. 

The  rain-storms  in  the  mountains  fill  the  streams 
with  melody  and  the  forest  thrills  with  ten  thousand  vi- 
brant notes.  The  roar  and  cadence  of  the  greater  falls, 
the  ripple  over  rocky  beds,  the  wild  sweep  and  surge  of 
rain  or  sheets  of  water  against  granite  cliffs,  and  the  wail 
of  the  wind  as  it  rises  and  gives  rein  to  its  fancy, 
sweeping  over  the  ridges,  rushing  down  into  the  canons, 
through  the  chaparral,  on  in  sheets  and  rivers,  bending 
great  trees  and  snapping  off  the  dead  wood,  are  all 
features  in  the  splendid  setting  of  the  forest  stage. 

By  such  a  storm  I  was  isolated  in  the  mountains  for 
several  days  ;  the  ordinarily  peaceful  streams  became 
violent  rivers;  Millard  Canon,  the  Arroyo  Seco,  and 
Negro  Cafion  were  impassable,  and  at  its  height  I 


2i8  Life  in  the  Open 

expected  that  our  cabin  would  blow  over  into  the 
cafion,  and  suggested  to  the  owner  that  it  would  not  be 
a  bad  plan  to  rope  it  down  to  a  neighbouring  tree.  As  it 
did  blow  over  in  a  later  gale  it  was  evident  that  my  half- 
joking  request  was  not  unwarranted.  It  had  rained 
heavily  and  steadily  for  three  days  ;  the  wind  came  in  a 
series  of  gusts,  and  when  they  passed  and  went  whirling 
up  the  caftons,  the  silence  was  profound  by  contrast ;  but 
it  only  made  audible  another  roar.  At  first  I  thought 
it  the  rush  of  waters  in  the  caftons ;  but  it  had  so  weird 
and  ponderous  a  note  that  I  went  out  and  made  my 
way  to  the  carton's  edge  on  the  north  and  found  that  it 
was  caused  by  the  rolling  of  big  rocks  down  the  steep 
bed  of  the  cafion.  So  strong  was  the  flow  of  waters,  that 
the  rounded  and  polished  boulders  began  to  move  and 
came  rolling  down  the  bed  of  the  stream,  creating  a  vi- 
bration that  filled  the  air  with  weird  and  ominous  sounds. 

On  the  fourth  day  provisions  gave  out  and  a  volun- 
teer was  sent  down,  but  the  stream  caught  his  horse  and 
swept  it  away.  The  following  day  the  clouds  melted, 
the  sun  broke  through  and  filled  the  valley,  caressing  the 
mountains  with  its  rays,  and  a  week  later  the  face  of  the 
land  had  changed  to  lighter  and  warmer  tints. 

Once  in  a  fierce  storm  in  the  mountains  I  faced  from 
a  divide  a  fall  on  the  distant  slope.  At  ordinary  times 
it  was  a  slender  line  of  silver,  a  cord  of  the  mountain 
lute,  but  now  every  cafion,  every  lateral  branch,  was 
running  full  and  the  fall  was  a  splendid  thing — strong 
and  resonant.  As  I  crouched  in  the  saddle  in  the 


Palms  at  Santa  Anita  Ranch,  Arcadia,  San  Gabriel  Valley. 


Life  in  the  Sierra  Madre  219 

friendly  shelter  of  a  big  rock,  I  saw  the  fierce  gusts 
of  wind  strike  the  falling  water,  lift  it  from  its  course, 
toss  it  in  air  like  hair,  whirling  the  strands  so  high  that 
for  a  moment  they  seemed  lost;  then  as  the  wind  passed 
on  they  took  shape  and  form  again.  Then  the  storm 
would  gather  its  forces  and  sweep  into  the  rocky  and 
polished  bowl  worn  away  by  time  and  eternity,  and 
swing  the  silvery  mass  like  a  gigantic  pendulum,  from 
side  to  side,  tossing  it  here  and  there  as  though 
in  play,  to  creep  away  and  go  roaring  on  through 
the  forest,  up  the  slopes,  raging  into  lateral  cafions, 
until  I  could  no  longer  hear  it  and  only  trace  it  by  the 
bending  trees  silhouetted  against  the  leaden  sky  on 
the  edge  of  the  range. 

The  southern  mountains  have  not  the  vast  and 
extended  forests  that  symbolise  the  Yosemite  region, 
but  they  have  a  wealth  of  trees  in  the  mountain  laurel, 
buckthorn,  lilac,  the  wild  cherry,  madrona,  manzanita, 
pines  of  several  kinds,  false  hemlock,  white  cedar,  juni- 
per, oaks,  and  many  more. 

All  the  cafions  are  filled  with  verdure;  each  is  a 
park,  with  all  the  glories  of  ferns  and  wild  lilies  and 
a  host  of  flowers  that  lure  the  stroller  on  and  on  into 
the  maze  of  gulfs  and  rivers  of  green  which  make  up 
the  forests  of  the  Sierra  Madre. 

He  who  views  the  mountains  from  the  valley  fails 
to  appreciate  their  size;  the  wall  of  bare  rock  is 
perhaps  disappointing,  but  here  is  a  range  whose 
exact  prototype  does  not  exist  in  any  land  —  austere, 


220  Life  in  the  Open 

burnt  out  in  places,  gaunt  and  grim,  it  symbolises  the 
war  of  eternal  ages.  Mother  Mountains  indeed,  well 
named  by  some  mountain  lover,  as  all  mountains  are 
the  mothers  of  the  land  at  their  feet,  and  Southern 
California  is  the  child  of  its  ranges,  and  the  fertile  val- 
leys are  the  washings  of  its  deepest  cafions  and  loftiest 
slopes. 

Here  is  range  after  range  as  high  as  Mount  Wash- 
ington. The  Adirondacks,  Alleghanies,  and  all  the 
peaks  of  New  England  could  be  thrown  into  the  maze 
of  cafions  of  this  range,  and  the  addition  not  be  sus- 
pected. No  mountains  in  America  rise  so  abruptly 
from  their  base,  none  present  such  an  array  of  deep 
cafions  and  precipitous  slopes,  such  long  and  narrow 
divides,  such  stupendous  reaches  from  summit  to  val- 
ley. I  am  familiar  with  many  mountain  ranges,  but 
do  not  recall  any  such  wall,  or  sudden  rise,  as  that 
which  confronts  the  pilgrim  from  the  East  as  he  crosses 
the  Colorado  or  the  Mojave  desert  and  ascends  to  the 
California  divide.  He  stops  near  Salton,  where  at  the 
deepest  point  the  valley  is  two  hundred  and  eighty  feet 
below  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  climbs  to  the  divide 
nearly  a  mile  above  it  amid  stupendous  peaks  which 
tower  from  ten  to  eleven  thousand  feet  in  air,  the  heart 
of  the  Sierra  Madre. 

In  strolling  through  the  cafions  or  on  the  upland 
mesas  you  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  life.  There  are 
countless  birds ;  you  may  see  the  California  condor,  as 
I  have  in  the  oak  forests  of  the  San  Gabriel.  The 


Life  in  the  Sierra  Marde  221 

ordinary  buzzard  soars  over  the  cafions,  and  the  road- 
runner,  or  paisano,  garbed  in  splendid  colours,  runs 
along  the  trail.  In  the  open,  the  ground-squirrel  lives 
in  burrows,  uttering  a  peculiar  cry,  " spink,  spink"  re- 
sembling the  blow  of  a  blaster  boring  a  hole  in  hard 
granite.  You  may  occasionally  see  a  badger,  and  count- 
less little  blue-throated  lizards  bask  on  the  rocks,  while 
beneath  them  you  find  one  with  a  turquoise-blue  tail. 

Southern  California  is  remarkable  for  its  freedom 
from  disagreeable  animals.  In  my  travels  I  have  never 
encountered  an  adult  rattlesnake,  though  they  are  here, 
and  rarely  have  I  seen  snakes  of  any  kind,  except  the 
gopher  snake.  Tarantulas  and  scorpions  are  indige- 
nous to  the  soil,  but  are  rarely  seen.  The  horned  toad 
is  the  common  lizard,  harmless,  and  an  interesting  pet. 
The  variety  of  birds  is  endless,  and  the  chorus  of  song 
about  the  homes  at  sunrise  in  early  spring  is  one  of  the 
charming  features  of  a  remarkable  country. 


Chapter  XV 
The  Wild  Goat  on  Orizaba 

WHEN  Cabrillo  came  up  the  California  coast 
in  1542,  he  sighted  a  large  island  with  two 
prominent  peaks,   and  from  almost   any- 
where in  the  mountains  of  Southern  California  they  can 
be  seen  rising  from  the  sea. 

Cabrillo  named  the  island,  after  one  of  his  ships,  La 
Vittoria,  but  the  name  given  it  by  Viscaino,  in  1645, 
Santa  Catalina,  from  the  saint's  day  of  his  arrival, 
has  held  down  through  the  years.  One  of  the  peaks  is 
called  Orizaba,  and  the  other  Black  Jack.  They  are  not 
high ;  though  from  a  distance  they  might  be  considered 
in  the  five-thousand-foot  class,  twenty-two  hundred 
would  be  nearer  the  truth  ;  yet  Orizaba  and  Black  Jack 
have  summits  and  slopes  that  in  steepness  might  belong 
to  the  top  of  some  wind-swept  peak  ten  thousand  feet  in 
air.  I  say  this,  as  I  have  been  to  the  peaks  of  both 
mountains  on  horseback,  and,  with  some  knowledge  of 
trails  in  California,  never  found  myself  in  quite  so  dis- 
agreeable a  position  as  one  afternoon  when  trying  to 
15  225 


226  Life  in  the  Open 

lead  my  horse  down  the  south  side  of  Orizaba,  sliding  just 
ahead  and  trying  to  keep  from  under  him.  I  had  un- 
advisedly left  the  trail,  and  was  trying  to  reach  a  goat, 
when  I  found  myself  in  a  maze  of  fallen  rock  that  had 
been  breaking  off  and  rolling  down  the  slide  for  ages. 
Nevertheless,  I  commend  the  mountains  by  the  proper 
trail  to  the  lover  of  mountain  climbing  and  hunting,  as, 
should  the  goat  elude  him,  he  will  bag  one  of  the  most 
attractive  and  enduring  views  in  all  Southern  California. 

The  mountains  rise  very  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the 
island,  and  from  any  point  present  the  appearance  of 
great  volcanoes,  surrounded  by  lava-like  rocks,  yet  all 
about  rise  hills  covered  with  chaparral,  and  verdant 
rivers  wind  away  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  My  start- 
ing-point had  been  a  camp  at  Middle  Ranch,  that  lies 
under  some  cottonwoods  at  the  base  of  the  Cabrillo 
Mountains,  where  they  form  the  north  slope  of  the 
carton.  It  was  the  dead  of  winter,  and  the  island  was 
carpeted  with  alfileria,  wild  grasses,  and  clover.  The 
canon  stream  ran  merrily  on,  coming  from  some  mysteri- 
ous place  and  gaining  in  volume,  rushing  in  beneath  ar- 
cades of  cottonwoods,  willows,  and  alders,  whose  tops 
were  often  draped  with  masses  of  wild  clematis,  and  so 
reaching  the  sea,  at  a  little  beach  on  the  south  coast  two 
or  three  miles  down  the  canon,  up  which  the  strong 
west  wind  came,  bearing  the  sound  of  breaking  waves, 
and  the  soothing  melody  of  the  sea. 

The  wild  goat  was  said  to  be  in  force  at  or  near  the 
head  of  Cottonwood  Cafion;  so,  with  rifle-scabbards  fast- 


The  Wild  Goat  on  Orizaba          227 

ened  to  the  big  Mexican  saddles,  we  rode  across  the 
hills  to  the  north,  and  gradually  rose,  entering  the  chap- 
arral, coming  out  on  the  edge  of  a  wood-lined  cliff  covered 
with  ironwood,  manzanita,  and  scrub  oak,  while  over  all 
the  slopes,  blazing  in  deep  reds,  were  Heteromeles,  or 
"  holly  "  berries,  that  are  in  a  way  as  famous  in  Southern 
California  as  the  cherry  blossoms  of  Japan.  A  deep 
canon  swept  up  to  the  right,  partly  filled  with  cactus  and 
chaparral,  and  opposite  rose  Orizaba.  As  we  stood, 
taking  in  its  beauties,  the  bleat  of  a  wild  goat  came  on 
the  air,  and  soon  after  a  herd  was  seen  winding  around 
the  slope,  then  turning  slowly  up  a  trail.  I  never  made 
a  better  miss  in  my  life,  putting  a  bullet  from  the  saddle 
four  or  five  feet  this  side  of  the  big  buck  in  the  lead 
and  sending  the  herd  up  the  slope  on  a  run,  where  they 
looked  like  small  dogs,  so  far  away  were  they. 

We  soon  found  the  trail,  a  precipitous  plunge  down 
through  the  chaparral,  frightening  scores  of  valley  quail, 
coming  out  into  the  cafion  with  its  patches  of  cactus, 
then  turned  up  the  slope,  finally  reaching  another  trail 
which  led  up  the  rocky  side  of  the  mountain,  a  goat  and 
sheep  trail,  over  which  the  wiry  horses  slowly  made  their 
way,  by  adopting  the  zigzag  method,  literally  beating 
up  the  slope  in  short  tacks,  I  leading  my  animal,  my 
comrade  riding.  The  trail  was  like  one,  described  by 
some  wag,  that  led  into  a  tree,  and  for  an  hour  we 
worked  our  way  up  the  side  of  the  almost  impassable 
mountain,  gradually  rising  above  the  hills  and  canons. 

Finally,  reaching  the  summit,  we  fastened  the  tired 


228  Life  in  the  Open 

horses  to  the  rocks  and  crept  slowly  over  the  rough 
surface,  and  then,  out  on  a  mass  of  seeming  lava, 
three  hundred  yards  away,  saw  the  herd,  a  large  buck 
standing  out  in  bold  relief.  I  had  disgraced  myself,  so 
insisted  that  my  companion  take  the  shot,  which  he 
did ;  but  whether  it  was  the  strong  wind  or  the  pecul- 
iar pulsating  atmosphere,  he  missed,  and  the  animals 
plunged  down  the  side  and  disappeared.  We  followed, 
and  reaching  the  spot,  heard  them  somewhere  far  down 
the  slope,  so  returned  for  our  horses,  stopping  for  a 
few  moments  to  take  in  the  splendid  vista  that  stretched 
away.  We  could  see  the  ocean  on  all  sides,  an  ineffa- 
ble tint  of  old  Persian  turquoise,  and  below  and  all 
about  cartons,  peaks,  and  ranges  that  formed  the  most 
remarkable  jumble  and  maze  it  was  ever  my  good  for- 
tune to  look  down  upon. 

The  island  was  an  emerald  in  a  setting  of  azure,  its 
green  intense — the  green  some  of  the  French  realists 
paint, — and  on  this  background  the  cafions  were  darker, 
melting  one  into  the  other.  Opposite  were  the  Cabrillo 
Mountains  and  Middle  Ranch  Carton,  and  to  the  west 
the  hills  went  tumbling  away  to  the  sea,  to  meet  it  in  lofty 
rocky  cliffs,  against  which  a  light-blue  haze  seemed  to 
play.  To  the  east  rose  the  snow-capped  mountains  of 
the  Sierra  Madre,  San  Antonio,  San  Jacinto,  and  San 
Bernardino,  ten  and  twelve  thousand  feet  high  ;  their 
white  summits  standing  out  against  the  blue  sky  in 
strong  relief,  across  thirty  miles  of  the  blue  Pacific  and 
as  many  more  of  green  hills  and  vales.  All  Southern 


Wild  Goat  Shooting  from  a  Boat,  Santa  Catalina. 


The  Wild  Goat  on  Orizaba          229 

California  was   before  us  and  the    islands  of  the  sea. 

Perhaps  you  have  led  a  horse  down  the  rocky  slope 
of  a  mountain  where  the  trail  is  a  matter  of  fiction,  a 
trail  by  courtesy,  where  the  horse  slides  and  you  are 
continually  stepping  aside  to  allow  him  to  pass,  then 
rounding  him  up  by  the  riata  which  you  have  fastened 
about  his  neck  to  anchor  him  by.  If  so  you  know  its 
difficulties  and  delights.  Half-way  down  we  came  to 
the  end  of  navigation  on  a  bed  of  broken  rock,  and  it 
was  by  a  special  dispensation  that  we  got  out  and  down, 
the  dispensation  being  clever  horses. 

We  followed  up  the  cafton  to  its  head,  climbed  Black 
Jack,  and  on  the  way  up  got  the  shot  that  gave  us  the 
big  head  as  a  trophy,  shooting  the  goat  across  the  gulch 
by  mere  good  fortune.  It  was  two  o'clock  that  after- 
noon when  we  secured  the  game  and  started  home 
down  the  canon,  after  a  series  of  seemingly  endless 
climbs,  taking  six  hours  to  secure  one  pair  of  horns. 

Hunting  the  wild  goat  is  not  always  so  difficult.  I 
have  run  upon  them  in  the  lowlands,  and  there  are 
places  well  known  to  Mexican  Joe  and  Joe  Adargo,  the 
guides,  where  they  can  be  had  with  less  difficulty.  But 
I  believe  the  sportsman  will  not  care  for  the  easy  places, 
as  the  climb  over  these  mountains,  the  wildness  of  the 
scenery  from  the  summits,  the  beauty  of  the  canons 
and  their  verdure,  will  well  repay  the  effort.  A  fine 
hunting-ground  is  that  on  the  south-west  side  of  the 
island,  where  it  rises  and  faces  the  sea  in  cliffs  often  so 
precipitous  that  even  the  wild  goat  cannot  crawl  down. 


230  Life  in  the  Open 

Riding  out  on  some  of  these  points  the  cliffs  for  miles 
can  be  seen.  A  fine  road  extends  the  entire  length  of 
the  island  from  Pebble  Beach  to  Avalon,  from  Avalon 
to  the  Isthmus  at  Cabrillo,  and  then  on  for  five  or 
six  miles,  any  part  of  which  will  repay  the  lover  of 
nature. 

The  following  day  we  took  the  trail  up  Cottonwood 
Carton,  visiting  an  ancient  stone  cave  dwelling  on  the 
divide,  a  great  spur  of  Orizaba,  where  the  ancient  Santa 
Catalinans  lived  centuries  ago.  At  the  entrance  a  huge 
clump  of  cactus  grew  over  piles  of  gleaming  abalone 
shells,  which  the  natives  had  carried  up  the  long  hill  from 
the  sea  several  miles  distant.  On  the  way  up  the  canon 
we  found  traces  of  ancient  occupation, — bowls  or  mortars 
partly  worked  out  in  the  solid  steatite,  or  stone  imple- 
ments ;  and  at  night  rode  into  camp  at  Empire,  where 
verd-antique  is  being  quarried.  This  ledge  is  an  an- 
cient olla  manufactory,  and  the  marks  and  scars  of  the 
work  are  still  to  be  seen.  Here  all  the  bowls  or  mortars 
of  soapstone  found  in  the  graves  of  the  Southern  Cali- 
fornian  Indians  were  made,  shipped  over  the  Santa  Cata- 
lina  Channel  in  canoes,  and  exchanged  for  deer  skins  and 
other  products. 

The  next  morning  we  started  for  Avalon  by  the 
north  coast,  following  a  narrow  trail  skirting  Black 
Jack,  now  along  cliffs  so  precipitous  that  a  misstep  would 
send  the  horse  rolling  down  a  thousand  feet  into  the 
deep  cartons,  always  on  the  coast,  until  the  head  of  the 
trail  was  reached,  where  we  followed  the  windings  of 


The  Wild  Goat  on  Orizaba          231 

the  canons  in  and  out  until  we  entered  the  vale  of  Ava- 
lon.  I  commend  this  ride  on  horseback  to  the  hunter 
who  enjoys  wild  and  picturesque  situations  in  mountain 
and  cliff  climbing. 

I  have  hunted  the  wild  goat  in  boats,  the  boatman 
rowing  along  shore,  the  animals  being  found  high  up  on 
the  face  of  cliffs,  and  I  have  often  seen  them  between 
Pebble  Beach  and  Seal  Rocks,  where  the  island  shores 
rise  in  splendid  cliffs.  Thousands  pass  this  front,  this 
fortress  of  rocks,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  but  it  is  only 
when  some  man  is  stranded  on  the  beach  and  can- 
not climb  the  cliff,  and  so  reach  the  town  of  Avalon,  a 
few  miles  away,  that  one  realises  how  impossible  it  is. 
I  have  seen  a  goat  come  down  the  face  of  this  precipice 
several  hundred  feet  high  and  find  itself  unable  to  get 
back.  It  is  possible  to  climb  it  in  places,  but  the  human 
climber  is  then  often  confronted  with  a  series  of  steep 
canons  that  are  menacing  and  dangerous  to  a  novice. 

The  wild  goat  of  Santa  Catalina  is  the  common  goat 
grown  wild,  which  some  one  placed  upon  the  island 
years  ago.  It  has  multiplied  so  that  several  thousand 
are  to  be  found,  affording  excellent  sport ;  at  least  I 
have  always  had  to  earn  my  game  in  long  climbs  that 
well  repaid  the  exertion,  if  not  in  game,  in  the  experience 
and  a  certain  charm  of  isolation. 

The  wild  goat  has  developed  certain  peculiarities: 
the  horns  are  often  larger,  and  the  bucks  sometimes 
have  a  heavy  development  of  hair  over  the  chest  not 
seen  in  the  tame  goat.  The  kids  are  excellent  eating, 


232  Life  in  the  Open 

especially  when  barbecued  by  some  of  the  Mexican 
past-masters  of  the  art  on  the  island. 

On  one  trip  to  Middle  Ranch,  the  barbecue  was  held 
in  the  evening  around  a  big  camp-fire.  The  Mexicans 
had  stripped  off  long  poles  of  willow,  and  impaling  big 
joints  of  meat,  held  it  over  the  coals,  turning  it  around 
and  around  until  done  to  a  turn  ;  then  there  were  chili 
con  carne  and  chili  Colorado  a.f\d.frzjoles,  and  then,  over 
the  cigars  and  pipes,  tales  of  the  old  times,  by  the  old- 
timers,  tales  of  the  days  when  Santa  Catalina,  according 
to  legend,  was  traded  for  a  horse. 

Middle  Ranch  Cafton,  which  almost  cuts  the  island  in 
two,  is  remarkable  for  its  climate.  In  summer  a  cool 
breeze  sweeps  in  from  the  sea,  coming  up  the  long  wind- 
ing river  of  verdure,  making  the  conditions  almost  per- 
fect ;  indeed  the  climate  of  Santa  Catalina  Island  is 
worthy  a  treatise  by  itself,  so  peculiar  is  it,  so  perfect 
from  the  insular  standpoint. 

Hunting  is  what  it  is  made.  One  may  coop  a  jack- 
rabbit  in  a  large  corral  and  watch  greyhounds  run  it 
down,  and  imagine  it  sport ;  so,  too,  the  hunter  may  at 
times  corral  the  goat  of  Santa  Catalina  in  some  corner 
and  slay  it  without  trouble  with  the  aid  of  a  guide,  who 
is  also  seeking  minimum  physical  exertion  ;  but  the 
hunter  who  will  go  out  into  the  open  and  climb  the  crags 
of  the  big  mountains  or  peaks  will,  I  venture  to  say,  in 
the  majority  of  instances,  have  hunting  and  climbing  that 
would  be  considered  all-sufficient  if  for  "  wild  goat "  had 
been  substituted  the  term  "  bighorn," — "  What  's  in  a 


The  Wild  Goat  on  Orizaba 


233 


name?"  Some  of  the  heads  that  are  brought  into 
Avalon  by  goat  hunters  are  remarkable  for  their  spread 
of  horn,  and  there  are  several  patriarchs  that  have  for 
years  defied  hunters  of  high  and  low  degree. 

In  riding  over  the  island  after  wild  goats  or  quail, 
one  occasionally  sees  foxes,  while  the  whir  of  the  valley 
quail  fills  the  air  at  times.  For  years  there  was  a  herd 
of  mysterious  burros  that  had  run  wild  and  defied  cap- 
ture. This  may  seem  incredible,  but  those  familiar 
with  the  gentle  burro  of  the  mainland  have  little  or  no 
idea  of  the  speed  attained  by  the  same  animal  when  he 
returns  to  nature. 

I  once  rode  upon  these  animals  on  the  west  side  of 
the  island,  and,  mounted  on  a  good  horse,  made  the 
attempt  to  catch  them.  There  were  three,  one  taller 
than  the  others.  They  stood  and  looked  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  next  we  were  in  a  whirlwind  race  over  a  bad 
country  strewn  with  rocks.  I  certainly  gained  on  them, 
but  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  long  it  took.  In  the  end 
I  ran  the  burros  down,  and  could  possibly  have  roped 
one,  when  they  dashed  headlong  down  a  steep  cafton 
and  disappeared,  relieving  me  of  the  embarrassment. 

To  see  this  interesting  island  with  its  rare  flora,  in 
some  instances  unique,  its  wealth  of  archaeological  lore, 
its  wild  and  attractive  scenery,  one  should  become  a  goat 
hunter,  take  a  man  like  Mexican  Joe,  the  oldest  guide 
and  inhabitant,  who  knows  the  island  thoroughly,  a 
good  saddle  horse,  and  a  single  burro,  and  make  the 
trip  from  one  end  to  the  other,  sleeping  in  the  open. 


234  Life  in  the  Open 

Two  weeks  or  more  can  be  spent  in  this  camping  trip  ; 
typifying  the  attractive  life  in  the  open  on  the  Channel 
Islands. 


Chapter  XVI 

The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio 

WITH  few  exceptions  the  coast  of  Pacific 
North  and  South  America  is  protected  by 
a  fringe  of  peculiar  seaweed  known  as 
kelp,  a  long,  rich,  olive-green  marine  laminarian  vine 
which  rises  from  the  bottom  to  the  surface,  in  thirty  or 
forty  feet  or  more  of  water,  and  droops  or  hangs  in 
festoons,  forming  a  beautiful  floating  garden  with  a  life 
peculiarly  its  own.  On  the  rocky  islands  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  from  San  Clemente  to  the  Farallones  this  vine 
is  particularly  abundant,  and  on  the  lee  shores  it  may  be 
examined  with  ease  from  the  glass-bottom  boat. 

At  mid-day,  at  half  tide,  is  the  best  time  to  visit  these 
hanging  gardens  of  the  sea;  then  the  bottom  can  be 
seen  plainly,  the  water  a  vivid  turquoise  blue,  gleaming 
brightly  through  the  interstices  of  golden  branches, 
which,  when  illumined  by  the  sun,  take  on  hues  of 
old  gold  and  amber.  The  leaves  are  twenty  or  thirty 
feet  in  length,  about  twelve  inches  in  width,  richly  fluted, 
and  hang  in  a  thousand  positions  of  grace  and  beauty, 

237 


238  Life  in  the  Open 

so  that  in  peering  down  from  above  one  looks  through 
innumerable  halls,  arcades,  and  parterres  that  extend 
away  to  infinity. 

In  South  America,  especially  about  the  Falkland 
Islands,  the  kelp  (Macrocystis)  attains  enormous  pro- 
portions, sections  estimated  at  one  thousand  feet  in 
length  having  been  taken  up  and  used  as  anchors  for  ves- 
sels, which  thus  were  saved  the  trouble  of  lowering  and 
hoisting  anchor.  On  this  desolate  coast  the  kelp  forms 
a  protecting  fringe  for  fishes  which  otherwise  would 
be  unable  to  exist,  owing  to  the  constant  and  heavy 
surf  that  is  always  piling  in,  and  thus  incidentally  the 
miserable  Fuegians  are  saved  from  starving,  subsisting 
almost  entirely  upon  the  fish,  the  barren,  half-frozen  land 
producing  little  or  nothing.  Everywhere  along-shore 
this  forest  of  hanging  vines  constitutes  shelter  for  many 
animals.  It  is  a  forest  of  seaweed  rising  from  great 
depth,  rolling  over  and  over  in  strange  but  graceful 
convolutions  in  the  surf  or  tidal  currents,  a  menace  to 
swimmers  and  often  to  vessels. 

Along  the  California  coast  at  extreme  low  tide  the 
kelp  lies  in  such  thick  masses  that  it  forms  an  almost 
impassable  barrier ;  so  much  so  that  once  in  making  a 
port  we  found  it  almost  impossible  to  force  a  sixty-ton 
power  yacht  through  it.  The  entrance  of  the  harbour 
was  made  ultimately  by  stationing  a  man  on  the  bow- 
sprit to  pass  the  word  how  the  helmsman  should  steer 
to  avoid  the  enormous  leaves  that,  in  tangled  masses, 
blocked  the  way.  These  huge  vines  do  not  indicate  a 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio  239 

rocky  coast,  but  fasten  themselves  to  small  stones  any- 
where in  water  of  medium  depth  from  a  few  yards  to 
half  a  mile  from  shore,  and  when  thrown  up  show  the 
short  roots  coiled  about  small  objects  with  a  vise-like 


These  hanging  gardens  of  the  sea  afford  a  home  for 
a  multitude  of  strange  animals,  which  have  a  singular 
protection  —  that  of  mimicking  the  tone  or  colour  of  the 
leaf.  These  animals  include  crabs,  shell-less  mollusks, 
and  fishes.  One  of  the  crabs,  which  is  nearly  two  inches 
across,  is  so  perfect  an  imitation  of  the  kelp  that  when 
lying  directly  before  the  eye,  it  is  difficult  to  see,  unless 
it  moves.  It  has  peculiar  points  and  spikes  which 
further  intensify  the  resemblance.  Lying  on  the  great 
leaves  are  numbers  of  slug-like  creatures,  "  shells  "  with- 
out shells,  tinted  a  rich  green,  safe  in  this  protection 
from  nearly  all  intruders. 

But  the  most  remarkable  resemblance  is  seen  in  a  fish 
called  the  kelp-fish.  It  is  about  a  foot  in  length,  of  the 
exact  colour  of  the  kelp,  with  a  long  continuous  dorsal 
fin  frilled  exactly  like  the  edge  of  the  leaf.  Did  this 
fish  dart  about  or  comport  itself  as  other  fishes,  it  would 
be  observed  at  once,  but  it  does  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  it 
lies  at  the  bottom  or  near  it,  standing  literally  upon  its 
head,  with  its  tail  extending  upward,  with  the  shorter 
kelp  leaves,  and  in  this  position,  hanging  in  the  gardens, 
waves  to  and  fro  with  every  surge  that  sways  the  ocean 
forest.  I  have  looked  for  these  fishes  for  a  long  time, 
watching  every  leaf,  and  finally  found  that  the  elusive 


240  Life  in  the  Open 

creature  had  been  under  my  eye  all  the  time,  but  had 
escaped  careful  scrutiny.  I  have  examined  dozens  of 
them  through  a  water-box  or  glass-bottom  boat,  and  in 
every  instance  they  were  holding  themselves  in  some 
peculiar  position  which  made  it  almost  impossible  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  green  masses  of  weed  that 
folded  and  unfolded  in  the  mysterious  currents. 

In  calm  weather  the  kelp  leaves  lie  dormant  like  sea 
serpents  upon  the  surface,  unfolding  and  folding  list- 
lessly ;  but  when  the  wind  rises  and  the  sea  comes  in,  it 
appears  to  be  filled  with  waving  monsters  that,  gripped 
in  fierce  embrace,  are  rolling  over  and  over. 

The  waves  are  coloured  a  deep  golden-brown  hue  by 
them  ;  they  fairly  fill  the  water,  and  coil  and  re-coil  in  a 
manner  particularly  dangerous  to  an  unfortunate  swim- 
mer thrown  among  them  at  such  a  time.  Often  in  fierce 
gales  the  entire  kelpian  growth  of  a  locality  will  be 
wrenched  out  and  cast  ashore  to  form  a  pile  or  windrow 
for  miles  along  the  beach  ;  but  in  a  marvellously  short 
time  the  kelp  again  appears  in  luxuriant  growth. 

These  gardens  of  the  sea  have  proved  so  interesting 
that  a  so-called  glass-bottom  boat  has  been  invented  at 
Avalon,  Santa  Catalina,  where  a  fleet  is  in  daily  opera- 
tion. Almost  every  visitor  to  the  island  goes  out  to 
drift  over  the  floating  gardens  of  the  sea  and  gaze  down 
through  the  big  glass  window  at  the  strange  animals  of 
the  kelp.  Among  the  fishes  is  a  giant  bass  six  or 
seven  feet  in  length,  which  occasionally  swims  across 
the  window — which  recalls  to  some  anglers  along  the 


Catch  of  a  Black  Sea -Bass  with  Rod  and  Reel  by  Ernest  Follon.     George  Johnson,  gaffer 

Santa  Catalina. 

(r)   Playing  the  fish.      (2)  Gaffing.      (3)   Hoisting  the   35o-pounder  aboard.     (4)   Hauling 
the  bass  to  the  scales.      (5)  The  proud  moment. 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio  241 

channel  the  incident  of  one  Tony  Oromo,  now  the 
captain  and  proud  owner  of  a  glass-bottom  boat. 

He  was  a  very  superior  person,  this  "  Don  "  Antonio 
Oromo,  and  interest  in  him  was  accentuated  by  certain 
legendary  wraiths,  possibly  of  the  imagination,  that 
drifted  in  and  out,  and  were  common  talk  about  the 
gaily  decorated  boat-stands  of  Santa  Catalina.  Don 
Antonio  certainly  never  claimed  to  be  a  descendant  of 
Montezuma,  or  that  his  ancestor  was  a  great  captain  of 
Viscaino's  fleet,  which  visited  the  island  in  1602  ;  in 
fact,  nothing  could  be  traced  to  him  except  a  statement 
that  his  grandfather  once  owned  the  island  and  traded 
the  property,  now  worth  millions,  for  a  white  horse ; 
why  white  no  one  knew.  I  had  fished  with  him,  as  the 
guest  of  a  friend,  on  divers  occasions,  and  the  only 
words  he  uttered  were,  "  Si,  senor,"  in  a  mellifluous 
voice,  in  response  to  the  stern  demand  for  more 
"  chum,"  when  possibly  he  had  fallen  asleep.  Yet 
despite  this,  Don  Antonio  had  "an  ancestral  reputa- 
tion," which  a  certain  manner,  suggestive  of  romance, 
lent  colour  to.  No  one  had  ever  heard  of  him  as  a 
boatman  or  fisherman  until  my  friend  discovered  him ; 
indeed,  a  Mexican  rival  in  the  gaffing  line,  of  no  par- 
ticular ancestry,  laughed  loud  and  long  when  he 
learned  that  "  Tony  "  was  going  to  row  during  the  tuna 
season. 

"  What,  him  !"  said  Nicola.  "  He  never  see  a  gaff 
in  he  life.  He  fish  ?  Why,  he  don'  know  a  tuna  from 
a  skip-jack.  He  mak'  me  tired,  he  do,  there  's  a  fac'. 

16 


242  Life  in  the  Open 

Tony  rowin'  ?     Eh  !  who  say  he  's  a  Don  ?     He  better 
be  up  Middle  Ranch  grubbin'  cactus ;  there 's  wha'  he 

b'long." 

Don  Antonio  must  have  heard  these  and  other 
criticisms,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  whether  deep  in 
his  Aztec  heart  he  was  determining  to  give  back  these 
taunts,  blow  for  blow,  no  one  could  tell ;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  he  was  another  example  of  what  oppor- 
tunity will  do  for  latent  genius.  He  was  born  to  fame, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  season,  not  long  after  the  mid- 
summer solstice,  still  silent  and  imperturbable,  he  stood 
a  prominent  figure  in  one  of  the  greatest  feats  in 
the  world  of  angling,  overshadowing  and  silencing  all 
his  critics  among  the  boatmen,  gaffers,  and  chummers  of 
the  island. 

It  came  about  as  follows :  The  tuna  season  at  the 
island  closes  for  some  mysterious  reason  on  or  about 
August  first,  though  specimens  have  been  reluctantly 
caught  in  the  middle  of  that  month,  and  their  high  and 
lofty  tumbling  may  be  often  witnessed  far  into  the  fall. 
The  ending  of  this  season  of  muscular  conclusions  with 
the  greatest  of  game  fishes  finds  a  small  army  of  expert 
anglers,  who  delight  in  the  excitement  of  this  big  game, 
with  summer  but  partly  gone  and  the  tuna  retired  from 
the  field,  its  season  being  May,  June,  and  July.  It  is 
now  that  the  resources  of  nature,  so  far  as  they  relate 
to  big  game  at  the  Southern  California  islands,  become 
apparent,  and  instead  of  putting  away  the  split  bamboo 
and  green-heart  rods  and  big  tuna  reels,,  the  angler, 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio  243 

who  perhaps  wears  the  blue  button  of  the  Tuna  Club, 
turns  to  the  black  sea-bass,  that  giant  of  the  tribe,  that 
is  peculiar  to  the  Kuroshiwo,  where  it  flows  by  the 
kelp-lined  shores  of  Southern  California.  A  fierce  war 
has  always  raged  in  the  vale  of  Avalon,  where  it 
opens  into  the  summer  sea,  over  the  respective  qualities 
of  this  bass,  ponderous  enough  to  be  the  Atlas  of  the 
fishes  and 

Sustain  the  spacious  heavens 

of  the  sea. 

A  few  choice  spirits,  doughty  knights  of  the  rod — 
and  I  will  not  gainsay  their  skill  and  prowess, — bear  the 
standard  of  this  fish  on  their  escutcheons  and  claim 
that  it  is  the  hardest-fighting  game  of  these  waters,  the 
superior  of  the  tuna  or  any  of  the  great  conquistadores 
of  the  angling  arena.  In  the  Tuna  Club  they  have 
their  black  sea-bass  cups,  on  which  their  winning  names 
and  the  ponderous  weights  of  their  catches  are  en- 
graved ;  their  linked  gold  badges,  worn  proudly  at 
annual  banquets;  and,  like  all  minorities,  they  claim  the 
world  as  theirs.  As  each  season  larger  fishes  in  both 
classes — tuna  and  black  sea-bass — are  caught,  the  ten- 
sion becomes  more  acute.  The  boatmen  side  with  their 
employers,  and  so,  by  virtue  of  his  patron,  Don  Antonio 
became  an  advocate  of  his  big  bass,  and  in  his  way 
fought  its  battles  with  the  tuna  gaffers,  and  bore  their 
gibes  and  scorn  with  easy  philosophy.  "  Los  paises  del 
sol  dilatan  et  alma,"  he  once  retorted  to  his  disputant, 


244  Life  in  the  Open 

whereby  Don  Antonio  implied  that  those  born  in  this 
land  of  the  sun-down  sea,  as  Joaquin  Miller  has  it,  have 
so  much  expansion  of  the  soul  that  such  things  do  not 
worry  them  ;  and  so  he  met  the  knights  of  the  tuna, 
held  his  peace,  and  blew  the  blue  smoke  of  his  cigarettes 
out  over  the  vermilion-tinted  waters  of  Avalon. 

If  one  were  to  take  a  small-mouthed  black  bass, 
build  it  up  until  it  was  six  feet  long,  and  stuff  it  until  it 
weighed  anywhere  from  two  hundred  to  five  hundred 
pounds,  some  conception  of  the  appearance  of  the  black 
sea-bass  (Stereolepis  gigas)  of  Santa  Catalina  might  be 
formed.  It  is  nearly  a  perfect  bass  in  form  and  feature. 
Its  eyes  are  blue ;  its  upper  surface  tinted  old  ma- 
hogany, and  its  under  surface  gray — a  mighty  creature 
of  solemn  mien. 

Deep  in  a  cavern  dwells  the  drowsy  god, 
Whose  gloomy  mansign  nor  the  rising  sun 
Nor  setting  visits,  nor  the  lightsome  moon; 
But  lazy  vapours  round  the  region  fly, 
Perpetual  twilight,  and  a  doubtful  sky. 

Ovid  might  well  have  had  the  great  bass  in  mind 
when  descanting  upon  the  home  of  the  god  of  sleep,  as 
while  the  tuna  frequents  the  high  sea,  now  blazing 
its  way  into  the  sunlight,  the  black  sea-bass  lives  in 
the  canopied  forests  of  kelp,  whose  long  leaves  form 
caves  and  retreats  of  fantastic  shape,  ever  changing 
with  the  current  that  sweeps  along  the  rocky  coast  in 
whimsical  and  erratic  measure. 

It  has  been  my  fortune  to  take  many  of  these  fishes 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          245 

weighing  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  with  a  hand-line,  to  have  lost  many  with  the 
rod,  and  once  to  have  been  fairly  beaten  in  a  short-rod 
trial  of  twenty-two  minutes.  Taking  the  fish  on  the 
hand-line  (though  I  would  not  be  understood  as  com- 
mending it)  is  not  without  its  excitement,  as  my  capture 
of  a  three  hundred  and  forty-seven  pound  specimen  off 
the  rocks  may  illustrate.  We  rowed  around  the  south 
end  of  the  island,  passing  the  long  Pebble  Beach,  by 
the  sea-lion  rookery,  whose  inmates  stared  at  us  lazily, 
roaring  and  barking  hoarsely,  by  the  Sphinx's  head  that 
gazes  eternally  into  the  west,  where 

Tempestuous  Corus  rears  his  dreadful  head, 

then  turned  to  the  north-west  and,  over  the  long  ground- 
swells,  moved  up  the  island  to  the  restless  kelp  beds, 
the  home  of  the  bass.  The  shore  here  is  precipitous 
and  wild,  beaten  by  the  winds  of  centuries,  and  coloured 
with  all  the  tints  that  mark  the  sunsets  of  this  isle  of 
summer.  There  is  no  shore  line  in  rough  weather ;  the 
pitiless  sea  piles  in,  buffeting  the  very  base  of  the 
mountains,  and  is  tossed  high  in  the  air  in  white  floccu- 
lent  masses  amid  the  booming  and  crash  of  contact  with 
seen  and  unseen  rocks. 

Directly  back  of  Avalon,  a  half-mile  offshore,  in 
sixty  or  seventy  feet  of  water,  lies  a  vast  submarine 
forest  of  kelp,  for  which  the  bass  invariably  make  when 
hooked  inshore.  Within  one  hundred  feet  of  the  beach 
is  another  kelp  bed,  whose  leaves  lie  along  the  surface 


246  Life  in  the  Open 

and  repel  the  waves,  the  feeding  and  spawning  ground 
of  the  bass.  In  one  of  the  little  bays  formed  by  the 
kelp  we  anchored,  hauling  aboard  one  of  the  great 
leaves  for  the  purpose,  which  could  be  tossed  over  at 
short  notice.  It  is  a  sport  in  which  the  angler  must  at 
times  let  patience  possess  his  soul,  and  I  have  sat  for 
hours  feeling  the  throbbing  line  without  a  strike ;  but 
this  is  the  exception.  Our  line,  baited  with  a  seven- 
pound  whitefish,  was  tossed  over  and  allowed  to  sink 
within  four  feet  of  the  bottom,  and  with  a  turn  about 
the  rowlock  we  waited,  fishing  betimes  for  sheepshead 
with  the  rod,  a  gamy  creature  ranging  up  to  fifteen 
pounds. 

So  engrossed  were  we  in  this  sport,  taking  the  big 
red-  and  black-banded  fellows  as  fast  as  they  could  be 
fairly  and  honestly  played,  that  the  object  of  our  trip 
was  all  but  forgotten.  But  suddenly  the  sheepshead 
ceased  biting,  there  was  an  ominous  pause  ;  it  was 
either  sharks  or  bass,  but  which  ?  I  reeled  in  my  line 
and  took  the  bass  line  in  hand.  The  current  running 
to  the  south  played  upon  the  line  with  a  gentle  musical 
rhythm.  Now  a  marvellous  jellyfish  fouled  it,  and  was 
rent  asunder,  or  a  mysterious  olive-green  kelp  frond 
swept  along  like  a  living  thing,  its  dim  shape  faintly 
outlined  against  the  blue. 

The  ocean  was  as  smooth  as  glass,  the  wind  gods 
were  resting,  and  the  only  break  on  the  clear  surface 
were  the  fins  of  yellowtail,  that  glistened  in  the  sun- 
light as  they  patrolled  the  kelp,  or  the  fairy  sails  of  the 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio  247 

silver  and  blue  velella  as  it  rose  and  fell,  an  idle  ship 
on  a  windless  sea.  Suddenly  I  felt  the  line  tauten,  as 
though  the  coming  flood  had  increased  in  intensity. 
How  it  thrilled  and  imparted  to  the  nerves  a  tingling 
sensation  !  Greater  and  greater  came  the  tension.  I 
dropped  over  the  anchor  of  kelp  and  paid  out  a  foot  of 
line,  then  two,  very  slowly,  gradually  increasing  until  it 
was  gliding  rapidly  over  the  side.  The  boat,  that  by 
actual  test  weighed  but  125  pounds,  whirled  gently 
around  ;  then,  having  given  the  unknown  ten  feet  of 
line,  I  stood  up  and  struck  home.  Down  on  my  knees, 
almost  overboard  I  went,  jerked  by  the  fierce  response, 
and  through  my  unyielding  hands  hissed  the  line,  churn- 
ing and  cutting  the  water,  slicing  it  into  great  crystal 
sheets. 

I  had  the  coil  amidships,  and  it  fairly  leaped  into  the 
air  as  the  fish  made  its  rush,  twenty,  fifty,  one  hundred 
feet.  I  seized  it  and  braced  back.  Nearly  elbow  deep 
went  my  arms  in  the  water  ;  down  went  the  boat,  my 
companion  sliding  into  the  bow  to  offset  it ;  down  until 
the  water  was  dancing  at  the  rail  ;  down  until  the  man 
in  the  bow  seemed  to  be  up  in  the  air  ;  down  so  deep 
that  my  face  was  so  near  the  surface  that  I  could  hear 
the  mysterious  crackling  sound  against  the  keel.  I  was 
about  to  give  way  to  this  doughty  plunger  when  he 
turned.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  took  in  the  line.  In  a 
great  circle  he  surged  around  the  boat,  and  I  gained  by 
desperate  hauling,  not  moving  the  fish,  but  pulling  the 
light  boat  to  him,  in  this  way  making  thirty  or  forty 


248  Life  in  the  Open 

feet.  Then,  without  warning,  he  jerked  me  to  my  knees 
again,  and  with  steady  lunges  strove  to  take  the  boat 
under  water,  and  I  was  content  to  give,  inch  by  inch, 
foot  by  foot,  until  he  calmed  down. 

The  bass  was  now  headed  for  the  offshore  kelp  bed, 
half  a  mile  away,  towing  the  boat  so  rapidly  that  the 
foam  rose  under  the  stern  in  an  ominous  wave.  The 
secret  in  this  fishing  is  to  fight  the  game  continually,  for, 
does  the  man  at  the  line  rest,  the  bass  recovers  in  an 
equal  ratio  and  the  contest  may  be  kept  up  until  the 
bass  reaches  some  retreat  offshore  and  plunges  into  the 
kelp,  breaking  the  line.  To  prevent  this  I  played  it 
constantly,  hauling  when  I  could,  and  slacking  only  to 
prevent  foundering  ;  now  flat  on  the  bottom,  bracing  to 
withstand  a  desperate  rush  ;  now  taking  in  the  line, 
receiving  savage  blows,  never  stopping,  until,  fifteen 
minutes  from  the  time  of  the  strike,  I  saw  a  gigantic 
black  and  gray  form  coming  slowly  out  of  the  blue. 
When  the  fish  saw  me  it  plunged  down  in  a  vicious 
rush,  but  I  turned  it  up  again,  and  by  strenuous  effort 
brought  it  near  the  stern.  The  boat  was  so  small  and 
light  that  my  companion  lay  in  the  bottom  to  preserve 
the  equilibrium,  and  I  attempted  to  gaff  the  monster  by 
holding  the  line  in  my  left  hand,  gaffing  it  amid  a  ter- 
rific flurry.  Once  the  iron  in,  it  was  jerked  from  my 
hand  repeatedly,  and  I  nearly  followed  it  overboard. 
For  half  an  hour  I  manoeuvred,  and  every  time  the  fish 
was  brought  within  five  feet  it  either  plunged  down  or 
rushed  around  in  a  manner  that  boded  ill  for  our  safety  ; 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          249 

indeed,  twice  the  boat  almost  foundered.  The  wind 
was  now  blowing  fresh  from  the  north-west,  and  the  sea 
had  picked  up  in  a  surprising  fashion,  adding  to  the 
difficulty ;  but  the  bass  was  brought  alongside,  and 
after  many  efforts  a  rope  was  passed  through  its  gills 
and  mouth  and  lashed.  Then  we  sat  back  to  breathe 
and  eye  the  rising  sea.  The  boat,  instead  of  rising  on 
the  swell,  was  held  down  by  the  fish,  and  it  was  evident 
that  a  breaker  might  sink  her. 

It  was  impossible  to  get  the  fish  aboard,  and  to  tow 
it  around  Church  Rock,  where  there  was  a  heavy  sea, 
seemed  inviting  disaster ;  but  we  attempted  it,  and  after 
running  the  gauntlet  of  the  Sphinx,  in  an  hour's  pull, 
had  the  fish  in  smooth  water.  Five  miles  we  towed  it, 
finally  meeting  some  fishermen,  whom  we  hired  to  aid 
us  in  hauling  the  fish  aboard.  It  almost  filled  the  boat, 
and  I  sat  on  my  game  while  my  companion  rowed.  But 
we  were  so  low  in  the  water  that  the  least  sea  would 
have  foundered  us,  so  we  engaged  the  men  to  convoy 
us  in,  and  finally  entered  Avalon  Bay  masters  of  the 
situation. 

Similar  experiences  characterised  other  catches,  and 
induced  the  belief  that  the  big  bass  could  be  caught 
with  a  rod.  It  remained  for  General  Charles  Viele  to 
demonstrate  that  this  could  be  accomplished.  I  accom- 
panied him  to  the  same  locality  one  morning,  anchoring 
undoubtedly  over  a  school  of  fish,  as  they  bit  fast  and 
furious.  The  launch  was  anchored  inshore,  and  the 
General  opened  the  campaign  by  casting  from  the 


250  Life  in  the  Open 

small  boat  alongside.  The  moment  he  hooked  the  fish 
the  boatman  pushed  off  and  rowed  after  the  game, 
adopting  the  method  so  successful  in  tuna  fishing.  The 
bass  took  him  one  hundred  yards  or  so  to  sea  in  the 
first  run.  In  the  meantime  I  had  cast  from  the  launch, 
and  hardly  had  the  bait  reached  the  bottom  before  my 
reel  began  what  proved  a  requiem  for  lost  tackle.  I 
was  firmly  anchored,  and  the  bass  took  my  line  and 
tip  ;  then  more  line  and  two  tips,  and  after  I  had 
hooked  four  fish  and  used  up  my  rods,  demonstrating 
that  I  could  not  stop  them  from  an  anchored  launch, 
I  threw  over  a  handline  and  presently  landed  a  bass  of 
100  pounds  ;  then  one  of  248  pounds,  the  latter  with 
the  aid  of  the  General,  who,  singularly  enough,  left  his 
fish  after  two  hours'  fight  and  came  aboard  for  lunch 
and  reinforcement.  The  bass  had  towed  the  boat  about, 
giving  them  a  battle  royal,  and  had  finally  reached 
kelp  and  fouled,  but  it  was  still  hooked.  The  line  was 
tautened  and  the  rod  lashed  to  a  tin  oil-can  and  left 
floating.  Later  a  grapnel  was  successfully  used  to  tear 
away  the  kelp,  and  in  half  an  hour  the  bass  was  gaffed, 
and  with  two  other  large  fish  we  steamed  for  port.  The 
General's  bass  weighed  227  pounds,  while  my  hand- 
line  catches  weighed  respectively  looand  248  pounds. 
I  had  timed  him  at  the  strike,  and  he  brought  his  fish 
to  gaff  in  two  hours  and  thirty-eight  minutes. 

This  was  in  1894.  Then  came  the  catch  of  Mr.  S. 
M.  Beard,  of  New  York,  who  took  several  large  fish 
with  rod  and  reel,  and  finally  that  of  Mr.  F.  V.  Rider, 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          251 

formerly  of  New  York,  now  of  Pasadena,  who  in  1898 
startled  the  angling  world  by  landing  in  fifty-five  min- 
utes with  rod  and  reel  a  bass  weighing  327  pounds — a 
feat  accomplished  only  by  a  determined  and  continuous 
fight.  During  this  time  the  fish  towed  the  angler  sev- 
eral miles,  making  a  series  of  furious  rushes  before  it 
was  brought  in,  giving  its  captor  the  record  of  the 
largest  fish  ever  taken  with  rod  and  reel.  During  the 
Tuna  Club  tournament  every  effort  was  made  to  break 
the  record.  Col.  R.  A.  Eddy,  of  San  Francisco,  an  en- 
thusiastic member  of  the  Tuna  Club,  took  five  black 
sea-*bass  weighing  respectively  240,  246,  322,  227,  and 
196  pounds.  Mr.  F.  V.  Rider  landed  three  fish  weigh- 
ing 175,  182,  and  151  pounds;  Dr.  Bently  three  of  150, 
184,  and  165  pounds,  and  Mr.  George  B.  Jess  one  of 
145  pounds.  These  catches  are  quoted  here  as  being 
very  remarkable  when  it  is  remembered  that  each  was 
made  with  a  twenty-one-thread  linen  line,  little  larger 
than  many  anglers  use  for  a  five-pound  small-mouth 
black  bass.1 

During  these  days  Don  Antonio  was  rowing.  I 
frequently  saw  him  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  purple 
shadows  were  creeping  out  from  the  lofty  cliffs  along 
shore,  near  the  tuna  grounds  ;  or  he  would  be  seen 
riding  a  heavy  swell  in  the  lee  of  the  Sphinx,  looking 
as  imperturbable,  as  he  chummed  for  his  patron,  as  the 
great  face  bathed  in  the  spray  of  the  restless  sea.  On 

1  Since  this  was  written,  many  much  larger  bass  have  been  taken,  and  the  record 
is  held  by  Mr.  L.  G.  Murphy,  with  a  bass  weighing  436  Ibs. 


252  Life  in  the  Open 

such  a  day  I  hooked  a  bass  off  the  kelp  beds  and  lost  it, 
then  with  a  camera  photographed  a  more  fortunate 
angler,  whose  boat  was  rushing  away  with  a  wave  of 
foam  beneath  her  stern,  despite  the  vigorous  efforts  of 
the  boatman.  Again  I  hooked  a  bass  that  with  a  bril- 
liant burst  of  speed  took  three  hundred  feet  from  the 
reel  and  carried  the  boat  on  with  surprising  force.  It 
is  always  the  largest  fish  that  escapes,  and  this  is  usually 
the  "  record-breaker."  I  could  hardly  move  it,  and  the 
line  sang  and  hummed  like  a  lute  touched  by  some 
mystic  fingers  deep  in  the  sea.  It  was  a  question  of 
stopping  the  bass  before  it  reached  the  kelp  bed,  half  a 
mile  offshore.  For  twenty  minutes  I  vainly  lifted  and 
essayed  to  reel,  each  moment  the  fish  nearing  the 
dreaded  kelp  forest. 

The  approved  and  only  possible  method  of  proced- 
ure was  to  raise  the  rod  gradually  with  both  hands,  then 
lower  it  quickly,  reeling  as  it  dropped,  but  I  believe  I 
never  swayed  this  monster  far  from  the  even  tenor  of 
its  way.  Exhausted,  I  handed  the  rod  to  a  companion  ; 
he  too  failed,  and  the  great  fish,  now  but  a  memory, 
dashed  into  the  kelp,  and  passed  out  of  history,  leaving 
a  dangling  line  alone  to  tell  the  story. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  season  that  Don  Antonio 
crushed  his  rivals  among  the  boatmen  of  Avalon.  The 
long  days  of  summer  were  growing  shorter,  the  cool 
winds  that  had  made  the  island  an  ideal  spot  for  angling 
were  dying  down,  and  day  after  day  the  sea  lay  like  a 
mirror,  its  surface  cut  by  shoals  of  innumerable  fish. 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          253 

The  sea-birds  were  coming  down  from  the  north,  long, 
undulating  lines  of  shags  passed  north  and  south,  clouds 
of  gulls  followed  the  bait  catchers,  and  the  west  at  night 
became  set  in  autumnal  splendours  and  ineffable  tints  of 
gold  and  red.  The  delightful  fall  fishing  season,  Sep- 
tember, was  on,  with  two  more  fishing  months  to  follow. 
A  rain  had  cleaned  the  sleeping  air ;  the  blue  haze  on  the 
distant  mountains  softened  the  rugged  outlines ;  the 
chaparral  and  trees  took  on  deeper  tints  of  green,  all 
telling  of  the  waning  summer  and  the  coming  of  the 
island  winter,  the  season  of  flowers. 

One  morning  when  great  bands  of  vermilion  shot 
upward  from  the  horizon,  cutting  deep  into  the  sky, 
Don  Antonio  rowed  his  patron  out  from  the  vale  of 
Avalon.  The  channel  was  calm,  and  the  rhythm  of  the 
tide  gave  a  gentle  undulation  to  the  kelp  leaves  that 
lay  glistening  in  the  rising  sun.  The  tide  was  low,  and 
all  along  shore  the  black  beard  of  kelp  brought  out 
the  rocks  in  strong  relief.  On  the  points  eagles  stood 
preening  their  feathers  for  the  day ;  a  school  of  sea- 
lions  was  making  for  the  rookery  after  a  circuit  of  the 
north  shore,  and  as  the  boat  rounded  the  point  and 
entered  the  light  green  water  a  fair  and  smooth  sea 
stretched  away.  Don  Antonio  dropped  the  anchor 
near  the  beach,  half  a  mile  above  the  rookery,  in  sight 
of  the  sea-lions  that  lay  basking  on  the  black  rocks, 
arranged  his  rope  to  cast  off  at  a  moment's  notice, 
placed  his  oars  in  position,  baited  his  hook  with  three  or 
four  pounds  of  albacore,  and  while  the  angler  made  the 


254  Life  in  the  Open 

cast  began  the  chumming  which  is  supposed  to  aid  and 
abet  the  capture  of  fish  in  all  climes. 

The  equipment  of  this  black-sea-bass  angler  may  be 
of  interest.  His  rod  and  reel  were  designed  especially 
for  leaping  tuna  and  black  sea-bass ;  the  silent  reel 
was  equipped  with  heavy,  patent,  anti-overrunning 
brake  and  leather  thumb-brake,  and  held  perhaps  six 
hundred  feet  of  twenty-one-thread  linen  line.  The  rod 
was  a  split  bamboo,  seven  feet  in  length,  with  long  butt 
and  single  joint  mounted  with  agate  guides.  A  six-  or 
seven-foot  bronze  wire  leader  was  attached  to  the  line, 
the  hook  being  the  Van  Vleck  pattern — a  singular- 
shaped  silvered  hook  in  high  favour  among  tarpon 
experts. 

A  light  wind  sprang  up  and  swung  the  boat  to  the 
east,  gently  rippling  the  water.  As  the  moments  slipped 
away  the  angler  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  rod  across 
his  knees,  the  line  overhauled  and  between  his  fingers, 
as  the  big  reel  had  no  click,  and  glanced  over  the  San 
Clemente  Channel  at  the  long,  low  island  that  loomed 
up  in  the  blue  haze.  It  was  not  a  day  of  waiting. 
Presently  there  came  an  ill-defined  tightening  of  the 
line ;  it  might  have  been  a  drifting  kelp  leaf,  possibly 
the  shifting  current;  then  it  slackened,  and  the 
angler  took  his  rod  in  hand,  his  right  clasping  the  butt, 
the  left  caressing  the  cork  grip  above  the  reel,  as  he 
well  knew  that  the  largest  of  game  fishes  in  the  bass 
tribe  are  the  most  delicate  biters.  There  was  no  mistake 
here ;  Don  Antonio  dropped  his  cigarette,  threw  off  the 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          255 

turn  of  the  anchor  rope,  and  held  the  buoy  in  his  hand. 

The  line  was  slipping  through  the  smooth  agate 
guides,  and  Don  Antonio,  dropping  into  Catalina  Span- 
ish in  his  excitement,  whispered  hoarsely,  "Ahora,  aho- 
raf"  But  not  yet ;  the  bass  might  have  the  heavy  bait 
merely  between  its  lips,  to  be  jerked  out  by  a  too  hasty 
strike.  Another  foot,  until  ten  or  twelve  had  gone,  then 
the  rod  rose  in  a  strong,  well-directed  strike,  and  the 
game  was  on.  Stse-stse-ceese-ceese  !  went  the  line,  hissing 
through  the  water,  the  silent  reel  unburdening  itself  to 
the  measure.  Over  went  the  buoy,  around  whirled  the 
boat,  and  bravely  they  were  away.  Stern  first  it  surged, 
with  Don  Antonio  holding  back  gently  at  the  oars. 

The  rod  pounded  the  air  with  terrific  jerks  and  the 
xepert  handling  it  was  almost  lifted  from  his  seat  by  the 
impetuosity  of  the  rush.  Directly  out  to  sea  the  fish 
went,  headed  for  deep  water,  and  as  at  this  particular 
point  there  was  no  kelp,  the  combat  was  to  be  on  its 
merits.  In  a  few  seconds  the  boat  was  rushing  stern 
first  into  the  swell  beyond  the  lee  of  the  island,  a  big 
wave  beneath  the  combing  stern.  Ten,  twenty,  thirty 
minutes  slipped  away,  and  the  boat  was  well  offshore 
where  the  wind  and  sea  were  rising,  and  the  angler  mean- 
time had  accomplished  little  but  hold  the  rod,  vainly 
pumping  with  seven  hundred  feet  of  line  out,  the  fish 
ever  boring  down.  After  a  desperate  effort  it  was 
turned,  when  it  rushed  inshore,  and  at  the  end  of  an 
hour  was  again  towing  them  seaward.  Sometimes  a  few 
feet  of  line  would  be  gained  and  as  many  lost,  the  fish 


256  Life  in  the  Open 

adopting  tactics  designed  to  wear  out  the  unsuspect- 
ing angler  :  rising  suddenly  to  plunge  down  with  irresist- 
ible force,  to  circle  the  boat,  then  run  in. 

Don  Antonio  all  this  time  held  the  oars  in  silence, 
backing  water,  offering  all  the  resistance  possible,  and 
keeping  the  stern  of  the  boat  to  the  fish.  The  sea  was 
rising  under  the  north-west  wind,  and  to  sit  in  the  stern 
of  the  boat  rushing  against  a  heavy  sea  was  to  invite 
disaster.  Once  a  big  comber  came  surging  in,  and  rein 
had  to  be  given  the  wild  steed,  that  fortunately  turned 
inshore  again,  overrunning  its  former  course.  But  it 
was  presently  a  question  of  cutting  away  the  fish  or 
foundering,  when  the  angler,  in  an  inspiration,  bethought 
him  of  a  bottle  of  oil  in  the  boat,  and  a  moment  later 
Don  Antonio  was  pouring  it  over  the  side.  The  change 
was  magical ;  the  fluid  mysteriously  blazed  a  spot  to  the 
windward  of  the  boat  perfectly  smooth,  and  presently 
the  singular  spectacle  was  witnessed  of  a  low  boat  in  the 
centre  of  a  heavy  sea,  yet  in  a  zone  of  perfect  calm  ten 
or  twelve  feet  across.  Here  Don  Antonio  held  the  boat 
while  the  angler  renewed  the  struggle,  and,  two  hours 
from  the  strike,  reeled  the  fish  to  the  boat. 

Up  it  came,  slowly  swimming  around  in  decreasing 
circles,  and  as  its  full  proportions  dawned  upon  him, 
Don  Antonio  made  a  fervent  appeal  to  the  saints.  The 
bass  seemed  as  long  as  the  boat — a  giant — and  as  it 
turned,  its  huge  tail  deluged  the  men  with  oil  and  water. 
It  was  then  that  Don  Antonio  reached  out  and  gaffed 
the  heaviest  fish  ever  taken  with  rod  and  reel,  gaffed 


The  Rise  of  Don  Antonio          257 

it  well.  But  what  then  ?  It  struggled  like  a  wild  bull, 
threatening  to  carry  the  anglers  down,  and  it  was  only 
after  a  contest  that  the  bass  was  securely  lashed  astern ; 
even  then  it  could  not  be  towed,  as  they  were  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  offshore.  A  passing  boat,  whose 
oarsman  was  a  rival  of  the  Don,  was  hailed  and  came 
down  to  them,  and,  with  the  camaraderie  of  sportsmen 
the  world  over,  offered  their  services.  By  the  combined 
efforts  of  five  men  the  bass  was  hauled  into  the  boat, 
the  fish  filling  it,  the  crew  taking  to  the  other.  In  this 
way  the  bass  was  towed  into  Avalon,  where  it  was  forth- 
with triced  up  on  a  huge  crane  and  weighed.  "  Three 
hundred  and  seventy  pounds,  senor."  Little  wonder  that 
it  had  towed  the  boat  eight  miles  and  had  been  saved 
only  by  pouring  oil  upon  the  water.  Very  much  after 
this  fashion  did  the  record  pass  to  an  angler  from  Phila- 
delphia. 

As  Don  Antonio  walked  through  the  little  town  that 
night,  he  was  followed  by  Mexican  boys  who  said  in 
hushed  tones  :  "  It  is  he  ;  he  gaffed  it."  His  victory  was 
complete,  and  on  the  record  book  one  may  read  after 
the  entry  of  his  patron's  catch,  "  Don  Antonio  Oromo, 
boatman  ;  the  largest  game  fish  ever  gaffed." 


Chapter  XVII 

The  Royal  Catch 


WHEN  the  early  spring  of  California  melts 
into  summer,  when  the  west  winds  freshen 
and  sweep  across  the  great  current  of  Japan, 
the  Kuroshiwo,  the  island  of  Santa  Catalina,  in  Southern 
California,  stands  like  an  emerald  in  a  setting  of  turquoise. 
Its  crest  is  a  vivid  green  ;  the  deep  waters  that  bathe  its 
rocks  and  leap  and  foam  in  the  shadow  of  its  mountains 
are  a  steely  blue,  and  they  environ  a  fishing  ground  of 
many  and  varied  delights. 

Winter  has  passed  —  a  winter  of  wild  flowers,  of 
soft  winds  ;  and  summer  has  come.  You  may  know  it 
by  the  gathering  of  the  clans  at  Avalon,  the  little  port 
and  town  of  the  island,  where  congregate  in  June  an- 
glers from  all  over  the  world,  to  await  the  coming  of  the 
leaping  tuna,  the  great  game  fish  peculiar  to  this  place 
— or  the  big  Japanese  yellowfin  albacore,  Hirenaga — 
so  far  as  its  capture  with  the  rod  is  concerned. 

Los  Angeles  is  the  point  of  departure  for  the  tuna 

grounds  ;  and  twenty  miles  distant,  reached  by  several 

261 


262  Life  in  the  Open 

railroads,  is  San  Pedro,  from  whence  the  Cabrillo  or 
the  Hermosa,  large  ocean  steamers,  take  the  angler  across 
the  Santa  Catalina  Channel,  thirty  miles,  to  the  island  of 
that  name,  a  great  mountain  range  lying  in  the  purple 
haze  to  the  west. 

Avalon  is  a  miniature  Naples,  with  the  charm  of 
colour  in  sky,  water,  and  rocks  that  makes  up  the  Italian 
resort.  There  are  good  hotels,  from  one  to  three 
steamers  a  day  in  summer,  and  one  in  winter,  wireless 
telegraph,  and  a  variety  of  sports  and  pastimes,  from 
fishing  for  a  remarkable  assortment  of  big  game  fishes 
to  hunting  and  riding  over  the  mountains  and  cafions. 
But  above  all  it  is  an  angling  community ;  the  entire 
southern  portion  of  the  bay  is  lined  with  the  fishing 
stands  of  the  boatmen,  each  of  whom  has  a  certain 
number  of  feet  of  beach  line,  out  from  which  extends  a 
string  of  rowboats,  tuna-boats,  glass-bottom  boats,  and 
sailboats, — so  many  that  the  bay  is  filled  with  them. 
This  bay  is  so  clear  and  still,  so  glass-like,  that  the 
angler  can  hardly  realise  that  he  is  not  in  some  loch  in 
Scotland,  or  on  the  St.  Lawrence. 

If  one  does  not  bring  his  tackle  with  him,  the  best 
can  be  purchased  from  any  of  the  shops  along  the  bay, 
and  all  the  boatmen  provide  it.  Tackle  is  a  subject  of 
vital  importance  here.  The  Tuna  Club  has  established 
a  sportsmanlike  code  as  to  tackle,  and  every  year  gives 
a  tournament,  offering  valuable  prizes  to  encourage  the 
use  of  the  rod.  As  a  result,  the  giant  fishes  of  these 
waters — the  tuna,  black  sea-bass,  yellowtail,  albacore, 


The  Royal  Catch  263 

white  sea-bass,  ranging  from  fifty  pounds  to  four  hun- 
dred— are  taken  with  light  lines  and  rods,  the  deadly 
handline  being  almost  unknown.  Good  tackle,  in  fact 
the  very  best  made  by  old  and  reliable  makers,  is  essen- 
tial, since  a  poor  line  or  rod  will  often  lose  the  day  after 
a  struggle  of  hours.  The  reel  is  known  as  a  tuna  reel,  of 
rubber  and  German  silver.  It  is  large  enough  to  hold 
six  hundred  feet  of  wet  line.  Such  a  reel  costs  from 
$15  to  $75.  It  has  a  patent  anti-overrunning  arrange- 
ment, a  brake  or  click,  and  to  the  cross-bar  is  attached  a 
rubber  or  leather  pad  that  can  be  pressed  upon  the  line. 
This  is  the  brake  par  excellence.  The  line  is  a  21  or  24 
cuttyhunk.  There  are  a  number  of  makes  ;  the  2 1  is 
large  enough,  and  it  is  in  this  connection  that  the  re- 
markable feature  of  this  angling  is  seen.  The  number 
2 1  is  not  much  larger  than  the  cord  used  for  eyeglasses, 
yet  a  four-hundred-pound  fish  has  been  killed  with  it. 
The  line  costs  from  $3.50  to  $4,  and  there  must  be  no 
question  about  it ;  it  must  be  true  every  inch  of  its 
length.  The  hook  is  a  matter  of  fancy.  I  prefer  the 
old-fashioned  O'Shaughnessy,  number  10/0,  to  my  mind 
a  perfect  all-round  hook,  but  the  Van  Vleck  is  one  in 
good  favour  on  the  tarpon  and  tuna  grounds.  The 
leader  is  of  piano  or  phosphor-bronze  wire  in  two  or 
three  links,  each  connected  by  a  brass  swivel— in  all, 
six  or  seven  feet  long.  The  line  above  this  for  ten  feet 
should  be  doubled  or  quadrupled,  for  the  gaffer  to  grasp, 
if  necessary,  after  the  gaffing,  and  for  security  against 
chafino;  when  the  tuna  is  boring  down  into  the  channel. 


264  Life  in  the  Open 

The  tuna  rod  is  identical  with  that  used  for  tarpon,— 
seven  feet  in  length,  in  two  parts,  a  one-piece  tip  and  a 
short  butt.  The  latter  is  often  of  rubber,  mounted  with 
German  silver,  with  the  tip  of  noibwood,  bethabera,  or 
green-heart,  weighing  about  twenty-five  ounces.  The 
rod  may  be  of  split  bamboo.  Such  an  one  costs  from 
$20  to  almost  any  price,  but  the  typical  $22  or  so  tuna 
or  tarpon  rod  is  best. 

The  tuna  is  the  king  of  the  mackerel  tribe,  the 
royal  catch,  Thunnus  thynnus  of  the  scientist,  a  fish 
that  attains  a  weight  of  fourteen  hundred  pounds  and  a 
length  of  fifteen  feet ;  a  world-wide  rambler  on  the  high 
seas,  yet,  so  far  as  is  known,  all  attempts  to  catch  it 
with  rod  and  reel  except  in  Southern  California  have 
failed.  On  the  Pacific  Coast  the  tuna  is  rarely  seen  in- 
shore or  near  the  mainland,  and  of  all  the  islands  which 
are  strung  like  jewels  from  Santa  Barbara  to  San  Diego, 
Santa  Catalina  is  the  one  where  the  tuna  is  seen  in 
greatest  numbers.  This  is  probably  due  to  the  con- 
tour of  the  island ,  which  affords  nearly  twenty  miles 
of  lee  calms  and  sheltered  coves  into  which  the  tuna  can 
drive  its  prey,  the  California  flying-fish.  This  fish 
appears,  and  the  tuna  with  it,  anywhere  from  May  first 
to  July,  though  the  latter  is  often  an  uncertain  quantity. 

From  May  until  November,  sometimes  December,  a 
storm  or  squall  of  any  kind  is  unknown.  So  pass 
the  days  away  waiting  for  the  tuna,  days  of  dolce  far 
niente.  One  morning  some  one  looks  out  over  the  bay 
to  the  east  where,  across  the  channel,  the  snow  caps  of 


The  Royal  Catch  265 

San  Antonio  and  San  Jacinto  stand  ten  thousand  feet 
in  air  against  vermilion  clouds, — looks  and  sees  a  mass 
of  whitecaps  in  the  midst  of  the  calm,  sees  black 
objects  leaping  from  the  sea,  and  then  Avalon  goes 
mad. 

"  Tunas  ! "  "  Look  ! "  "  The  tunas  have  come  ! "  are 
the  cries  in  "  dago  "  Spanish,  California  Italian,  Hispano- 
Mexican,  and  English.  Every  angler  rushes  for  his  rod 
and  boat,  and  in  a  short  time  several  trim  tuna  launches 
are  darting  out  across  the  bay,  while  less  fortunate 
anglers  are  hurrying  hither  and  yon  hunting  for  boat- 
men, boatmen  are  hunting  for  patrons  who  perhaps  are 
playing  golf,  baitmen  are  rushing  for  the  seine,  and  the 
whole  fishing  community  is  thrown  into  great  excitement. 

Meanwhile  the  boatman  is  baiting  the  hooks  with 
the  large-twelve-inch  California  flying-fish,  the  natural 
food  of  the  tuna,  impaling  it  so  that  the  bait  will  move 
through  the  water  in  a  natural  position  and  not  twist. 
The  school  of  tunas  is  moving  north  and  the  boatman 
steers  the  launch  to  cross  them.  All  being  ready,  the 
anglers  wet  their  lines  to  prevent  any  burning  off  when 
the  leather  brakes  are  applied,  slack  out  fifty  or  sixty 
feet,  and  sit  with  rods  across  the  lap,  one  to  port,  the 
other  to  starboard,  the  tips  at  an  angle  of  forty-five 
degrees,  left  hand  upon  the  rod  grip  above  the  reel 
seat,  and  right  thumb  upon  the  leather  pad  which  the 
skilled  angler  plays  upon  to  kill  the  game. 

On  nearing  the  school,  the  fishes  become  more 
distinct  and  the  splendid  spectacle  is  afforded  of  large 


266  Life  in  the  Open 

tunas  feeding.  A  stretch  of  perhaps  twenty  acres  is  a 
mass  of  foam.  Some  of  the  fish  are  playing  along  the 
surface,  churning  the  blue  water  into  silver.  Some  are 
leaping  high  into  the  air,  going  up  like  arrows,  eight  or 
more  feet.  The  boatman  is  bearing  off  and  is  several 
feet  ahead,  but  suddenly  slows  down  to  half  speed. 
Big  flying-fishes  are  speeding  away  in  every  direction  a 
foot  or  more  above  the  water,  looking  like  gigantic 
dragon-flies.  Now  the  bait  is  in  the  line  of  march 
of  the  school.  The  boatman  stands  like  a  statue,  his 
hand  on  the  little  engine,  ready  to  stop  and  reverse. 
Suddenly  he  whispers,  "  Look  out,  sir  !  "  his  voice  hoarse 
with  what  should  be  suppressed  excitement,  and  two  or 
three  flying-fishes  cross  the  exact  location  of  the  baits. 
He  knows  that  a  nemesis,  one  or  more,  is  directly  be- 
hind. Then  comes  a  rush  of  something,  a  blaze  of  silvery 
foam  along  the  surface,  tossing  the  spume  high  in  air, 
and  two  rods  are  jerked  to  the  water's  edge,  while  the 
reel  gives  tongue  in  clear  vibrant  notes  like  the  melody 
of  an  old  hound  that  one  angler  had  known  in  the 
Virginia  fox-hunting  country  long  ago. 

Zee-zee-zeee-eee  !  rises  the  music,  the  symphony  of  the 
reels ;  now  a  duet,  both  joining  and  giving  out  long- 
continued  notes  as  the  line  is  jerked  away  in  feet  and 
yards,  in  veritable  handfuls.  In  the  meantime  the 
school  is  closing  about  the  boat  and  there  is  fear  that 
the  lines  will  be  cut  by  the  crazed  fish.  Fisherman's 
luck !  one  breaks — perhaps  too  much  pressure  was  put 
upon  the  brake,  perhaps  the  sharp  fin  of  a  tuna  cut  it. 


The  Royal  Catch  267 

So  one  angler  slowly  reels  in,  and  watches  the  play  of 
his  more  fortunate  companion. 

The  boatman  has  stopped  the  launch  at  the  sound 
of  the  reel,  and  is  now  backing  her  slowly,  so  that  the 
angler  may  not  lose  all  of  his  line.  The  slightest  mis- 
take, a  fraction  too  much  pressure  on  the  thumb  pad,  a 
little  overdue  excitement,  a  mild  attack  of  buck  or  tuna 
fever,  any  condition  away  from  the  normal,  and  the 
game  is  up,  as  the  line  can  be  snapped  by  any  jerk,  and 
is  seemingly  an  absurd  thing  with  which  to  fight  so 
powerful  a  fish. 

But  this  angler  is  an  old  tarpon  fisherman.  He  has 
seen  the  silver  king  vault  into  the  empyrean,  has  seen 
it  flashing,  coruscating,  caracoling  in  the  sunlight,  so 
that  he  seemed  to  be  playing  a  fish  in  mid-air.  He  has 
his  nerves  well  in  hand,  and  slips  the  butt  of  his  rod 
into  the  leather  socket,  and  follows  every  move  of  the 
game  by  the  agate  tip.  Down  it  goes,  fairly  into  the 
water,  as  though  struck  by  repeated  blows.  Zee-zeee- 
zeee-e-e-e-e !  the  music  of  the  gods,  the  echo  from  the 
strains  in  the  dark,  unfathomed  caves,  perhaps,  where 
this  wild  game  has  plunged. 

Every  hundred  feet  of  line  is  marked  by  a  "  telltale" 
band  of  red  silk,  and  the  angler  has  watched  three  and 
a  green  one,  indicating  fifty  feet,  slip  through  the  silver 
trumpet  guides,  and  still  the  fish  is  going;  yet  but 
a  few  seconds  have  passed.  Four  hundred  feet,  and  a 
little  shower  of  leather  filings  has  collected  in  the  reel 
near  the  pad.  The  launch  is  going  at  full  speed 


268  Life  in  the  Open 

backward,  the  angler  is  pressing  upon  the  brake  and  lift- 
ing with  all  the  power  the  line  will  stand.  Five  hundred 
feet  as  a  red  dot  flashes  up  the  rod ;  then  the  pressure 
stops,  the  first  rush  is  over,  and  the  angler  slowly  lifts 
the  slender  rod,  which  is  bending  to  the  danger  point, 
yet  holding.  The  boatman  has  stopped  the  engine  and 
that  angling  miracle  is  seen,  a  tuna  towing  a  heavy 
launch  by  five  hundred  feet  of  a  number  twenty-one 
thread  line.  It  is  asserted  by  some  who  have  not  seen 
it  that  this  is  an  impossibility,  yet  it  is  done  every  day 
when  the  tuna  are  biting  along  the  isle  of  summer. 

The  fish  is  slowly  rising ;  the  school  has  passed  on, 
and  the  singing  of  distant  and  other  reels  is  heard. 
Enthusiastic,  but  less  fortunate,  anglers  pass  by,  and 
rise  to  give  the  sportsman  cheer  and  wish  him  good 
luck ;  they  are  warned  by  the  boatman,  who  considers 
social  amenities  totally  out  of  order,  to  keep  away  from 
the  line,  as  any  man  with  a  fish  hooked  is  entitled  to 
the  field.  Up  comes  the  tuna,  imparting  to  the  line  a 
quivering  motion  until  it  reaches  the  surface,  when  it 
turns  and  comes  along  the  surface  like  an  arrow. 

The  angler  springs  to  his  feet,  that  he  may  see  the 
splendid  move,  and  reels  for  his  life.  No  power,  no 
multiplier,  could  eat  up  the  line  to  match  this  racing 
steed  that  comes  on  and  on,  a  blaze  of  silver,  gold,  and 
blue,  tossing  the  water  within  ten  feet  of  the  boat, 
where  it  turns  in  a  miniature  maelstrom  and  is  away. 
But  the  angler  meets  it,  stops  it  again  ;  and  so  the 
battle  goes  on,  and  an  hour  slips  away. 


Landing  the  Leaping  Tuna. 

(i)  The  strike.   (2)   Rushing  in  on  the  boat.      (3)   Boatman  Neal  at  the  gaff.    (4)  Weighing 

a  Tuna. 


The  Royal  Catch  269 

The  fish  repeatedly  rushes  in,  trying  to  take  the 
angler  at  a  disadvantage  ;  then  plunging  to  the  bottom, 
to  rise  like  a  bird  to  the  surface,  and  circle  the. boat,  then 
towing  it  a  mile  to  sea,  where  it  turns  and  literally  goes 
crazy  in  a  series  of  evolutions,  at  the  end  of  which 
it  has  been  brought  within  a  few  feet  of  the  boat. 
Again  and  again  this  has  been  accomplished.  Again 
and  again  the  angler  has  felt  himself  going  under  the 
tremendous  pressure,  but  hope  shines  like  a  star  some- 
where in  his  heart ;  he  has  determined  to  land  that  fish 
at  any  cost,  and  never  relinquishes  his  hold  upon  the 
rod  or  reel.  Almost  an  armistice  is  called.  It  seems  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  bring  the  fish  nearer.  Seeing  the 
boat,  it  breaks  into  a  frenzy,  bearing  off  with  such  vio- 
lence that  disaster  hovers  about,  too  near  for  comfort. 

Lifting,  reeling,  pumping,  holding  fast,  the  fisher- 
man always  feels  the  continued  strain  which  tells  that 
the  tuna  has  never  lost  a  scintilla  of  its  strength  and 
vigour,  is  still  fresh,  while  it  long  ago  began  to  tell 
on  the  man,  indeed  on  the  nerves  of  one  looking  on. 
Suddenly,  after  three  hours  and  a  quarter,  the  fish  turns 
and  swims  away  to  the  south,  dragging  the  boat,  oc- 
casionally stopping  to  rush  in ;  but  at  the  end  of  four 
hours,  within  three  hundred  feet  of  where  it  was 
hooked,  and  after  a  last  run  of  four  miles,  the  tuna  is 
brought  to  gaff.  Ten  or  twelve  miles  it  has  towed  the 
boat  up  and  down  the  coast,  ten  miles  of  fighting.1  The 

1  The  author's  record   fish,  the  first  large  tuna   taken,  weighed  183  Ibs.     It 
towed  the  boat,  against  the  boatman's  oars,  ten  or  twelve  miles  in  four  hours. 


2;o  Life  in  the  Open 

weary  angler  stands  and  leads  it  into  the  field  of  the 
gaffer,  and  as  the  steel  sinks  into  its  silvery  flesh  below 
the  jaw,  it  makes  a  supreme  effort  and  plunges,  shatter- 
ing the  gaff,  making  fifty  feet.  There  's  many  a  slip 
between  gaff  and  line  in  catching  tunas ! 

Again  the  angler  rallies  and  a  fresh  gaff  hits  the 
mark ;  the  angler  slacks  away,  and  all  stand  upon  the 
rail  as  the  gaffer  slides  the  splendid  fish  into  the  boat,  a 
monster  in  gold,  silver,  and  azure,  which  later  on  tips 
the  scales  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  A  few 
ponderous  blows  on  the  flooring,  a  strange,  penetrating 
quiver,  and  the  king  is  dead.  Up  runs  the  flag  of  vic- 
tory, bearing  the  blue  tuna,  shattered  nerves  and  weary 
muscles  are  forgotten,  and  the  boat  runs  in  amid  the 
cheers,  whistles,  and  salutes  of  the  lookers-on  in  boats 
who  have  been  watching  the  catch  and  the  often  heart- 
breaking struggle. 

That  afternoon  the  angler  wears  a  little  blue  button. 
He  has  taken  tarpon,  perhaps  the  weird  rohu  and 
mahsir  that  Kipling  sings  about ;  but  he  would  not  ex- 
change his  experience  with  all  these  for  that  four  hours' 
battle  with  the  leaping  tuna  along  these  placid  waters. 

So  delightful  are  the  conditions  of  the  sport  at  this 
isle  of  summer  that  they  become  compensations  even 
for  occasional  poor  luck,  as  even  tunas  are  uncertain 
and  seasons  have  been  known  to  pass  when  the  fish, 
over  one  hundred  pounds  in  weight,  absolutely  spurned 
all  lures.  The  winter  here  is  the  time  of  flowers,  or 
from  the  coming  of  the  rain,  from  November  to  April, 


The  Royal  Catch  271 

during  which  ten  or  twelve  inches  will  fall;  a  rainy  sea- 
son  in  name  only,  for  from  May  until  November,  and 
sometimes  December,  a  storm  of  any  kind  is  unknown 
on  these  fishing  grounds,  while  extreme  heat  is 
a  stranger  to  the  vale  of  Avalon.  Day  after  day  the 
bays  and  coves  are  disks  of  steel,  and  the  angler  drifts 
along  in  the  shadows  of  the  lofty  cliffs,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  absolute  relaxation,  and  the  best  of  sea  fishing. 

There  is  another  feature  which  makes  rod  tuna 
fishing  possible  here.  The  tunas  at  Nova  Scotia  and 
other  localities  on  the  Atlantic  Coast  average  six  or  nine 
hundred  pounds.  Large  fishes  predominate,  at  least  this 
is  my  experience.  I  have  collected  data  from  1850  on, 
and  such  game  is  doubtless  beyond  the  field  of  the  rod 
angler.  On  the  Pacific  Coast  very  large  tunas  are  rare, 
the  record  rod  catch  of  Avalon,  held  by  Col.  C.  P. 
Morhouse,  weighing  but  two  hundred  and  fifty-one 
pounds,  the  average  tuna  seen  being  one  hundred  and 
fifty  down  to  seventy  pounds.  This  accounts  for  the 
number  caught,  a  number  large  when  the  agility  of  the 
fish  is  considered,  but  small  in  reality. 

It  is  these  conditions,  the  absolutely  quiet  water  of 
the  Kuroshiwo  as  it  flows  down  the  coast,  which  have 
produced  this  tuna  ground,  a  veritable  paradise  for 
good  anglers.  The  angler  who  has  fairly  killed  a  tuna 
weighing  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  after  a  con- 
stant fight  of  four  or  five  hours  has  accomplished,  in 
my  opinion,  a  feat  more  difficult  than  shooting  a  tiger 
from  the  back  of  an  elephant  or  a  lion  from  cover.  I 


272  Life  in  the  Open 

have  always  had  a  fondness,  more  or  less  unreasonable, 
possibly,  for  large  game  of  the  sea,  and  have  taken  al- 
most every  hard  fighter  from  tarpon  to  the  giant-ray,  but 
award  the  palm  of  hard  fighting  to  the  tuna  at  its  best. 
Some  weakened  by  spawning  or  other  causes  can  be 
landed  in  ten  minutes  with  a  club-rod,  and  strong  women 
have  landed  this  fish,  but  the  one-hundred-and-fifty- 
pound  tuna  in  the  best  condition  is  game  for  men  in 
their  best  form,  and  such  a  fish  will  fight  until  its  heart 
stops  beating. 


Santa 


Chapter  XVIII 

Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina 

THE   Pacific   coast  of   North  America  has  long 
been  famous  for  its  coach  lines  and  the  men 
who  held  the  lines.     Before  the  advent  of  the 
railroad  six-in-hand  coaches  carried  passengers  all  over 
the  State.     One  line  ran  from  San  Francisco  to  Los 
Angeles,  five  hundred  miles ;  from  here  another  ran  to 
San  Diego  and  over  the  desert  to  Yuma,  Santa  Fe\ 
and  the  East.      This  difficult  service  developed  a  pe- 
culiar class  of  men  or  drivers,  noted  for  their  courage  ; 
daring  men  who  would  take  a  mountain  road  at  full 
speed  where  there  was  not  a  foot  to  spare.     The  early 
pages  of  California  history  are  filled  with  stories  of  the 
marvellous  exploits  of  these  men.    The  coming  of  rail  and 
electric  roads  has  almost  driven  the  stage  out  of  business 
in  Southern  California.     There  is  a  notable  exception  at 
the  island  of  Santa  Catalina.     The  island  is  really  a  spur 
of  the  coast  range,  separated  from  the  mainland  by  the 
Santa  Catalina  Channel ;  a  jumble  of  picturesque  peaks 
running   in    every  direction   and  worn  into  thousands 

275 


276  Life  in  the  Open 

of  deep  picturesque  cartons  by  the  rains  of  centuries. 
At  most  points  the  shores  are  abrupt,  no  beaches  ap- 
pearing; the  mountains  rise  directly  from  the  ocean, 
affording  but  a  shelf  as  a  vantage  ground.  This  is  par- 
ticularly true  of  the  south-west  side,  where  no  landing 
can  be  made  for  miles,  except  where  a  canon  has  formed, 
its  mouth  marked  by  a  sandy  beach  of  pure  white  against 
which  the  surf  piles  in.  The  one  town,  Avalon,  is  made 
up  of  hotels,  cottages,  shops,  and  a  large  fleet  of  boats 
for  the  benefit  of  anglers  from  all  over  the  world.  It  is 
situated  in  the  mouth  of  Grand  Carton,  one  of  the 
largest  of  the  cartons  at  the  south  end  of  the  island  ;  the 
only  other  settlement  is  Cabrillo,  at  the  Isthmus,  about 
fifteen  miles  away,  a  maze  of  mountains  intervening. 
The  two  places  have  long  been  connected  by  a  trail  by 
which  wild-goat  hunters  made  their  way  up  the  sides  of 
the  mountains  to  the  interior;  but  as  the  population 
grew  it  was  evident  that  a  perfect  road  was  necessary, 
so  several  years  ago  a  stage  road  with  a  low  grade  was 
begun,  started  at  both  ends,  winding  up  the  mountains 
from  Avalon  to  the  Isthmus,  one  of  the  most  extra- 
ordinary pieces  of  road  engineering,  in  all  probability,  in 
the  country,  owing  to  its  sensational  features  and 
the  apparent  difficulties  in  the  way  of  its  com- 
pletion. 

Lovers  of  coaching — and  by  this  is  meant  mountain 
coaching — doubtless  form  a  class  by  themselves,  but  it  is 
difficult  to  understand  how  any  one  fond  of  sport  that 
has  an  essence  of  daring  in  it  cannot  enthuse  over  this 


Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina          277 

splendid  road,  that  in  point  of  insular  scenery  and 
contrast  between  mountain  and  ocean  has  no  equal. 

The  start  is  made  at  Avalon,  the  coach  pulling  up  to 
the  hotels  in  the  morning,  the  passengers  booked  taking 
their  places  soon  after  nine.  The  drivers  are  charac- 
ters ;  all  have  histories.  One  was  a  driver  in  the  Ari- 
zona mountains  for  years — his  stories  of  hold-ups  and 
adventures  would  fill  a  volume ;  another  is  an  old 
Yosemite  driver,  familiar  with  curves,  precipices,  and 
dizzy  trails — men  who  never  get  "rattled,"  and  who 
thoroughly  understand  their  business.  The  road  takes 
us  up  a  street  of  the  little  town,  turns  sharply,  rounds  a 
point  reaching  into  the  sea,  and  in  a  few  moments  we 
are  high  above  Avalon,  its  crescent  bay  standing  out  in 
relief,  the  blue  Pacific  stretching  away  in  every  direc- 
tion. A  sudden  turn  is  made  and  the  road  is  seen 
climbing  a  shelf  on  the  side  of  Descanso  Cafion  that 
reaches  the  sea  parallel  to  Grand  Cafton,  separated 
from  it  by  a  spur  of  the  mountains.  The  road  is  per- 
fect, and  the  horses  are  obliged  to  walk  slowly  to  the 
summit,  perhaps  three  miles  by  the  winding  road.  At 
every  turn  the  driver  has  a  story  to  fascinate  the 
tenderfoot  on  the  box  seat. 

"  I  call  this  Rattlesnake  Point,"  said  the  driver,  flick- 
ing his  whip  at  the  place  which  appeared  to  hang  over 
the  ocean,  one  thousand  feet  below. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  young  lady  who  had  the  box 

seat. 

"  Why,"  echoed  the  driver,  glancing  at  her,  "  as  I 


278  Life  in  the  Open 

was  coming  down  one  day  I  saw  a  big  rattler  in  the 
road,  and  pulled  up  the  team  just  in  time  to  save  it. 
The  next  trip,  there  was  the  same  snake  in  the  same 
place,  and  as  we  went  by  it  crawled  after  the  stage ;  so 
I  got  out  and  put  it  in  a  box  and  took  it  down  to 
Avalon.  That  snake  was  the  gratefulest  creature  you 
ever  heard  of ;  tried  to  follow  me  all  over.  You  see, 
I  "d  saved  its  life.  When  I  went  to  Los  Angeles  one 
day  I  took  it  along  and  left  it  in  my  hotel  when  I  went 
out.  When  I  went  back  I  heard  a  noise,  and  looking 
up  to  the  window  I  saw  that  rattler's  tail  hanging  out 
and  rattling  so  you  could  hear  it  a  block.  I  went  up 
as  quick  as  I  could,  thinking  the  window  had  fallen  on 
it,  and  what  do  you  s'pose  I  saw?" 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  the  young  lady  from  the 
East,  with  a  look  of  horror  on  her  face. 

"  When  I  pushed  in  the  door,"  continued  the  driver, 
"  there  was  a  burglar  lying  on  the  floor.  The  rattler 
had  the  thief  by  the  coat,  and  its  tail  was  out  of  the 
window,  rattlin'  for  the  police.  And  yet,"  the  driver 
added,  glancing  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  the 
young  lady  and  tossing  the  long  lash  at  the  leaders, 
"  some  folks  say  animals  don't  think,  and  snakes  is 
cold-blooded.' 

Every  foot  of  the  rise  gives  the  rider  a  new  vista  of 
mountains  and  ocean.  We  are  now  half-way  up,  making 
a  sharp  horse-shoe  curve.  The  deep  cafton  drops  com- 
pletely away  oil  the  right ;  we  can  toss  a  stone  that  will 
roll  a  thousand  feet.  The  trees  at  the  bottom  look  like 


Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina          279 

bushes  and  the  sails  of  vessels  are  like  gulls  below  us, 
while  facing  us  are  the  lofty  Sierra  Madres,  capped  with 
snow,  forming  the  edge  of  the  world. 

The  coach  is  always  following  the  indentations  of 
the  canon.  This  road  is  but  a  shelf  fifteen  feet  wide, 
cut  out  of  its  side.  Now  we  are  facing  the  mountains, 
now  seemingly  walking  into  the  ocean,  or  about  to  drop 
into  space.  Ever  rising,  new  peaks  come  into  view, 
new  points  ;  ranges  of  purple  mountains,  silvered  with 
flecks  of  gray ;  and  so  on,  until  the  horses  step  out 
upon  the  loop — a  clever  turn,  where  the  lady  on  the 
box  seat  looks  into  space  and  practically  sees  the  two 
leaders  coming  toward  her,  so  sudden  is  the  curve. 

Higher  the  horses  climb,  finally  stepping  out  upon 
the  hilltop  at  the  summit,  fifteen  hundred  feet  up,  where 
they  face  the  sea,  commanding  a  view  perhaps  without 
peer  in  America.  The  entire  island  is  seen,  a  maze  and 
jumble  of  peaks  and  ranges  so  high  above  the  ocean 
that  the  ships  below  appear  like  chips  floating  on 
its  surface.  The  walk  up  of  the  six  horses  has  taken 
possibly  an  hour  and  a  half.  You  can  if  you  wish  go 
down  in  eighteen  or  twenty  minutes,  if  it  happens  that 
you  are  in  the  stage  that  does  not  go  through.  I  have 
taken  it  many  times,  and  am  prepared  to  award  the 
palm  to  this  splendid  ride  as  the  most  exciting  in  my 
experience.  It  is  the  acme  of  coaching  possibilities, 
exhilarating  and  perfectly  safe.  The  regular  drivers  are 
only  allowed  to  make  the  descent  at  a  certain  speed, 
but  I  have  taken  it  a  number  of  times  with  Captain 


28o  Life  in  the  Open 

William  Banning,  one  of  the  owners  of  the  island,  and 
one  of  the  most  skilful  amateur  whips  in  America. 
Then  the  six  horses  were  "  let  out,"  and  thefull  delights 
of  mountain  coaching  were  realised.  With  the  driver's 
foot  on  the  heavy  brake,  lines  well  in  hand,  the  coach 
would  start,  the  horses  gaining  speed  until  all  six  were 
running  down  the  incline,  not  prancing,  but  on  a  dead 
run.  Nerves  were  left  on  the  summit,  or  packed  in  the 
boot,  so  there  was  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  complete 
enjoyment  of  the  scene. 

I  was  impressed  by  the  splendid  handling  of  the  six 
horses  on  a  road  where  a  fall,  a  break,  or  a  wrong  turn 
meant  something.  The  driver  had  them  absolutely  in 
hand,  and  the  spirit  was  infectious.  We  were  literally 
running  down  a  mountain  cliff  at  full  speed.  Now  the 
horses  would  make  a  sharp  turn,  the  wheelers  disappear- 
ing around  the  bends ;  but  so  deftly  was  the  brake  used 
that  the  coach  turned  safely,  gradually  slowing  up  at 
the  right  moment.  Then  on  the  long,  steep  incline, 
the  horses  increased,  if  possible,  their  speed.  Now  they 
turn  at  the  head  of  the  cafion,  rising  on  the  incline ; 
now  rushing  out  onto  the  loop,  the  leaders  seemingly 
in  the  air,  but  turning  so  quickly  and  suddenly  and 
easily  that  the  wheelers  are  going  one  way  and  the 
coach  another ;  but  this  is  for  only  a  moment.  The 
coach  crosses  its  own  track,  doubles  on  itself,  and 
plunges  down  the  road  or  shelf,  seemingly  into  the  blue 
waters.  One  feels  like  taking  off  his  hat  and  cheering ; 
it  is  like  dropping  out  of  a  balloon,  the  sky  and  mount- 


Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina          281 

ains  seemingly  moving  upward,  the  horses  rushing  into 
the  sea.  There  is  a  roar  of  wheels  grinding  over  hard 
roads ;  a  musical  clanking  of  buckles  and  trapping,  the 
snap  of  a  long  lash ;  words  from  the  driver  that  the 
horses  understand.  They  appear  to  be  running  away, 
yet  it  is  merely  as  clever  a  piece  of  driving  as  one  could 
well  imagine ;  all  six  horses  are  running  loosely  in  the 
harness,  and  the  coach  is  being  managed  by  the  brake. 
No  words  can  describe  the  sensation  of  this  gallant  run, 
this  exhibit  of  skill  that  is  all  too  short.  The  horses 
dash  out  onto  a  point  seemingly  into  space,  then  wheel 
around  the  lower  trail,  sending  clouds  of  dust  over  the 
edge  of  the  precipice,  and  roll  into  Avalon  town  amid 
the  cheers  of  the  observers  who  have  been  watching 
the  descent. 

"Eighteen  minutes  from  the  summit,"  some  one 
says,  and  you  think  it  must  have  been  a  mistake.  It 
surely  was  instantaneous,  a  John  Gilpin  dream. 

If  the  return  ride  is  not  taken,  the  coach  moves  on 
from  the  summit  along  the  north  face  of  the  island; 
crossing  some  of  the  deepest  cafions,  affording  a  series 
of  fine  views  of  ocean  and  abyss.  Suddenly  the  road 
turns  at  the  head  of  what  is  called  Middle  Ranch  Canon, 
and  the  horses  gallop  down  into  the  heart  of  the  island. 
The  cafion  deepens  and  a  brook  appears  ;  now  running 
through  an  arcade  of  willows,  between  masses  of  the  wild 
rose,  if  in  early  spring,  which  fill  the  air  with  perfume. 
Flocks  of  the  plumed  quail  rise  here  and  there,  and  count- 
less  numbers  run  along  the  road  before  the  horses. 


282  Life  in  the  Open 

Deeper  grows  the  carton,  the  road  winding  in  and  out, 
now  in  a  wide  valley  with  the  Cabrillo  Mountains  on  the 
left  and  low  foothills  reaching  up  to  Mount  Black  Jack 
and  Orizaba's  rugged  rocks  and  peaks,  about  whose  sum- 
mit the  wild  goat  makes  his  home.  The  cafion  narrows 
again,  and  tooling,  bowling  down  a  sharp  descent,  the 
coach  reaches  the  Eagle  Nest  Inn,  beneath  a  clump  of 
cotton-woods.  Here  one  may  sit  in  the  door-yard  and 
listen  to  the  musical  notes  of  the  plumed  quail  that  fill  the 
glades,  and  the  rush  of  the  brook  after  the  winter  rain, 
or  the  booming  roar  of  the  ocean  that  comes  up  the  long 
cafion  from  the  south  shore. 

Here  is  refreshment  for  man  and  beast ;  we  listen  to 
the  tales  of  the  goat  hunters,  who  are  making  their 
headquarters  here,  then  again  take  our  seats,  and  the 
coach  winds  away  out  of  the  Middle  Ranch  Cafion  down 
by  the  big  spur  of  Orizaba  which  is  an  island  divide. 
About  five  miles  from  Eagle  Nest  we  come  to  Little 
Harbour  Inn,  where  two  perfect  and  diminutive  harbours 
face  the  west,  affording  a  fine  view  of  the  rocky  coast 
up  and  down  the  island.  The  cliffs  are  precipitous  in  the 
extreme ;  but  the  feature  which  will  perhaps  attract  the 
attention  of  the  man  on  the  box  seat  or  in  the  saddle 
will  be  the  succession  of  evidences  of  prehistoric  occu- 
pation pointed  out  by  the  driver.  To  the  south  of 
Little  Harbour  a  level  plateau  rises  above  the  sea,  the 
site  of  an  ancient  Indian  town,  hundreds,  perhaps  thou- 
sands of  years  old.  I  found  it  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
there  are  many  interesting  evidences  of  human  occupa- 


Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina          283 

tion  on  the  beach.  Below  the  inn,  at  Little  Harbour,  are 
several  shell  mounds  left  by  the  ancients  in  which  have 
been  found  many  articles  in  stone,  shell,  and  wood ;  and 
from  here  eight  miles,  to  the  Isthmus,  there  are  many 
evidences  of  similar  remains.  The  stretch  of  road  re- 
maining is  interesting  as  it  plunges  into  the  centre  of 
the  island  again  ;  now  climbing  the  hills,  passing  through 
groves  of  dwarf  oak  or  by  vast  areas  of  cactus,  yellow 
with  blossoms.  Climbing  the  mountain  slopes,  the  road 
affords  views  of  the  Pacific  to  the  west  in  the  direc- 
tion of  San  Nicolas  and  San  Clemente;  then  suddenly 
crosses  the  divide  five  hundred  feet  above  the  Isthmus 
at  Cabrillo,  with  its  crescent-shaped  beach,  its  groves  of 
palm  and  eucalyptus. 

Here  the  driver  has  a  fine  descending  road  in  which 
to  entertain  the  lovers  of  fast  driving.  It  happens  that 
all  the  passengers  wish  to  be  so  entertained,  and  they 
request  him  in  a  body  to  "  let  them  out."  To  say  that 
he  responded  is  putting  it  mildly.  The  old  driver  out- 
does himself,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  fine  team  that  has 
been  changed  back  at  the  inn  is  galloping  down  the 
road  at  full  speed.  The  skill  of  the  driver,  the  manner 
in  which  he  sends  the  six  running  horses  around  impos- 
sible curves,  is  beyond  description.  A  moment  ago  we 
were  standing  on  the  divide  where  we  could  almost  toss 
a  stone  into  the  blue  water,  five  hundred  feet  below ; 
now  we  are  rushing  down  the  incline  and  round  up  in 
gallant  fashion  at  Cabrillo.  Tobogganing  cannot  be 
had  at  Santa  Catalina.  but  in  this  stage  ride  you  have  a 


284  Life  in  the  Open 

substitute  without  any  of  the  discomforts,  and  the  ride 
down  either  end  will  linger  long  in  your  memory. 

Cabrillo  is  the  site  of  one  of  the  largest  ancient  In- 
dian towns  in  California.  It  is  a  vast  kitchen  midden. 
Houses  and  stables  are  built  over  mounds  of  bones  and 
abalones,  and  here  tons  of  stone  implements  have  been 
dug  up,  and  taken  to  the  British  and  other  museums  in 
England  and  America.  As  a  pleasant  diversion  the 
coach  ride  ends  here ;  the  party  may  return  by  coach  if 
they  wish,  but  the  trip  includes  a  trip  back  by  launch, 
fifteen  miles  down  the  north  coast  to  Avalon,  which 
affords  the  coacher  a  complete  view,  near  at  hand,  of  the 
attractive  and  picturesque  coast,  and  enables  him  to  see 
the  coach  road  over  which  he  has  passed  from  the  ocean  ; 
caves  which  cut  deep  into  the  rock ;  lofty  cliffs,  fair 
reaches  of  mesa,  lofty  peaks  and  jumbles  of  hills,  wind- 
ing canons  forming  little  beaches  here  and  there,  make 
up  the  panorama  as  the  yacht  dashes  along  near  the 
rocks,  over  the  famous  tuna  grounds  that  are  known  to 
anglers  the  world  over,  finally  reaching  the  vale  of 
Avalon  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  round  trip  of  perhaps 
forty  miles  through  a  region  that  has  a  most  romantic 
interest,  being  in  1540  the  home  of  a  vigorous  race, 
which,  like  the  buffalo  and  other  original  inhabitants, 
have  long  ago  been  wiped  out  of  existence. 

This  stage  road  has  been  extended  five  or  six  miles 
north  of  Cabrillo,  reaching  Howland's,  an  attractive 
little  bay  on  the  north-east  coast  near  Ship  Rock — the 
finest  fishing  ground  about  the  island.  Another  fine 


PQ 


Coaching  at  Santa  Catalina          285 

road  leads  from  Avalon  south  to  Pebble  Beach  ;  all  these 
roads  are  available  by  carriage,  saddle  horse,  or  auto- 
mobile, all  of  which  find  place  on  the  island.  Some  day, 
perhaps  not  far  distant,  the  electric  car  will  supersede 
the  coach,  and  the  tourist  be  whirled  along  the  mountain 
trails ;  but  even  this  cannot  rob  this  marvellous  road 
of  its  beauties. 

The  stage  line  does  not  run  at  all  seasons,  but  to  the 
wild  goat  or  quail  hunter  the  road  and  trail  are  always 
open,  and  on  horseback  the  mountain  lover  will  find  the 
trip  to  in  every  way  repay  the  effort.  The  stage  driver 
is  a  luxury,  but  not  an  essential. 


Chapter  XIX 

The  Sea-Lion's  Den 

THE  Pacific  islands  off  Southern  California 
abound  in  sea-lions,  which  afford  excellent 
sport,  but  not  with  the  rifle.  The  hunter  must 
satisfy  himself  with  the  camera,  as  the  animals  are  pro- 
tected, but  the  hunt  is  exciting,  owing  to  the  close 
proximity  of  the  game,  and  in  some  instances  its  abso- 
lute fearlessness.  One  huge  bull,  weighing  nearly  half 
a  ton,  comes  out  upon  the  beach  at  Avalon  to  be  fed  at 
times. 

In  riding  over  the  mountains  of  the  islands,  from 
Santa  Rosa  to  Santa  Clemente,  one  may  hear  roars  and 
bellowing  coming  from  hundreds  of  feet  below.  If  one 
has  the  curiosity  to  locate  these  sounds  and  find  out 
what  they  mean,  he  may  follow  down  the  deep,  rocky 
canons  that  reach  to  the  sea,  or  crawl  down  the  face  of 
the  cliffs  to  come  suddenly,  perhaps,  upon  the  rookery 
of  the  lions  of  the  sea,  that  can  be  found  along-shore  in 
isolated  places. 

In  years  gone  by  these  islands  gave  shelter  to 
19  289 


290  Life  in  the  Open 

myriads  of  these  animals,  but  they  have  been  gradually 
decimated;  driven  from  pillar  to  post,  until  the  great 
rookeries  are  reduced  to  a  few.  Fifty  years  ago,  at 
what  is  known  asCatalina  Harbour,  there  was  a  herd  of 
sea-elephants,  animals  doomed  to  extinction,  but  they 
were  so  tame,  and  at  that  time  so  valuable  for  their  oil, 
that  they  were  mercilessly  destroyed,  and  to-day  it  is 
very  doubtful  if  a  single  sea-elephant  could  be  found  on 
the  western  coast  of  the  United  States,  the  last  few 
specimens  having  been  killed  off  in  Lower  California 
during  the  past  five  years. 

On  the  island  of  Santa  Catalina  the  sea-lions  have 
been  protected,  and  on  the  south  end  of  the  island 
is  the  finest  rookery  known,  when  the  tameness  of  the 
animals  is  considered,  as  they  permit  visitors  to  approach 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  rocks  and  photograph  them. 
The  bulls  here  are  of  large  size,  and  they  have  recently 
divided  and  formed  a  rookery  near  Long  Point,  on 
what  is  known  as  White  Rock.  These  lions  are  several 
times  as  large  as  a  common  seal,  and  while  the  latter 
has  a  short  neck,  that  of  the  former  is  long  and 
snake-like,  and  the  animal  has  a  ferocious  mien. 
The  big  mouth  is  filled  with  sharp  teeth,  the 
animals  being  very  active,  appearing  like  huge  black 
slugs. 

The  sea-lions  go  ashore  in  June,  and  the  young 
soon  appear  on  the  sands  at  the  base  of  the  great 
coloured  cliffs,  taking  to  the  water  when  approached,  but 
easily  tamed.  At  this  time  the  entire  herd  leave  the 


The  Sea-Lion's  Den  291 

rocks,  where  they  lie  in  the  sun  and  keep  up  a  barking 
that  can  be  heard  a  long  distance. 

The  sea-lion  is  a  very  clever  animal,  lying  on  the 
rocks  during  the  day,  basking  in  the  sun ;  and  as  the 
latter  disappears,  he  tumbles  overboard,  often  swimming 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  up  the  coast,  going  at  a  rapid 
rate,  entering  the  bays,  especially  those  where  fisher- 
men make  their  headquarters.  In  Avalon  Bay  the  bark- 
ing of  sea-lions  can  sometimes  be  heard  all  night,  one 
or  more  remaining  there  until  all  the  fishes  thrown 
overboard  are  removed.  They  are  so  tame  that  fisher- 
men, in  washing  fish,  have  had  it  snatched  from  their 
hands,  and  they  will  often  follow  fishermen  about  and 
steal  the  bait  as  fast  as  they  can  put  it  on,  yet  never 
appear  above  water,  the  angler  thinking  it  a  fish,  the 
sea-lion  just  bringing  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  surface 
to  breathe.  Sometimes  during  the  day  you  may  find 
them  lying  in  the  kelp  beds,  and  they  rarely  venture  far 
from  shore,  as  there  the  big  orcas  and  sharks  chase 
them.  An  orca  was  killed  up  the  coast  at  Sequel  some 
years  ago  that  contained  five  sea-lions. 

In  all  probability,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  sea- 
lion  rookeries  in  the  world  is  in  the  Painted  Cave,  at 
the  island  of  Santa  Cruz,  one  hundred  miles  north  of 
Santa  Catalina,  where  boats  can  be  chartered  for  the 
trip,  or  at  Santa  Barbara,  directly  opposite.  This  cave 
leads  in  under  the  mountain  at  Point  Diablo.  As  I 
tried  to  land  on  the  slippery  ledge  of  a  rookery  not  far 
from  here,  intending  to  go  ashore,  the  sea-lions  came 


292  Life  in  the  Open 

rushing  down  the  rocks,  one  big  bull  charging  me  with 
mouth  open,  thinking  to  drive  me  off ;  but  as  I  stood 
my  ground  he  sheared  off,  and  plunged  into  the  ocean 
with  the  rest  of  the  herd  and  swam  off  with  wild  bark- 
ing roars. 

The  opening  of  the  Painted  Cave,  from  the  sea, 
was  an  arch  about  fifty  feet  in  height,  leading  into  a 
large  room  beautifully  coloured  red,  pink,  blue,  green, 
and  yellow  from  the  staining  of  the  rocks  by  salts. 
From  this  we  rowed  the  boat  into  what  was  really  an- 
other room,  thirty  or  forty  feet  high,  the  water  being 
ten  or  fifteen  feet  deep,  as  clear  as  crystal,  the  bottom  a 
mosaic  of  colour.  We  were  rowing  into  a  sea-cavern, 
and  when  possibly  about  two  hundred  feet  in  we  came 
to  a  small  opening  about  the  size  of  our  boat,  there  be- 
ing just  room  enough  to  float  in  after  a  wave,  from 
which  came  roars,  screams,  and  demoniac  sounds  suffi- 
cient to  raise  the  ancient  dead  of  Santa  Cruz.  Every 
few  moments  a  wave  would  come  rolling  into  the  cave, 
passing  from  room  to  room,  and  on  reaching  the  small 
orifice,  or  entrance,  in  front  of  which  we  drifted,  would 
close  it  completely  and  part  of  it  go  into  the  unknown 
with  a  roar  of  sounds  that  was  appalling.  Waiting 
until  a  wave  had  passed  we  pointed  the  boat  in  and 
ran  her  into  the  den  of  lions,  coming  out  into  a  room  of 
large  size  where  absolutely  nothing  could  be  seen. 
Lighting  a  flambeau  only  made  the  darkness  more  pro- 
found. We  struck  two  planks  together,  producing  a 
sound  like  thunder,  the  noise  rolling  away  off  into 


The  Sea-Lion's  Den  293 

what  appeared  to  be  other  rooms,  echoing  and  rever- 
berating from  passage  to  passage,  until  lost  in  the 
distance,  suggesting  that  the  cave  had  endless  ramifica- 
tions. The  roar  from  sea-lions  came  from  all  about 
us,  and  from  seemingly  distant  caves,  producing  a  series 
of  sounds  that  one  might  believe  issued  from  the  bot- 
tomless pit.  Cries  of  fear,  rage,  pain,  horror,  and 
despair  were  easily  imagined.  I  can  give  no  better 
illustration  of  the  effect  those  cries  had  upon  the  human 
ear  than  to  say  that  my  companion  and  host,  the  owner 
of  our  yacht,  failed  completely  in  trying  to  induce  some 
of  his  crew  to  enter  the  cave  ;  they  refused  point  blank, 
and  could  not  be  ordered  in  ;  so  we  rowed  ourselves 
and  the  men  remained  aboard. 

I  felt  around  the  edge  of  this  cave,  and  found  a  sort 
of  shelf  on  which  the  sea-lions  evidently  rested.  I 
could  hear  them  plunge  over  as  we  approached,  and 
could  see  the  flash  of  phosphorescence  as  they  dashed 
through  the  water  adding  to  the  uncanny  nature  of  the 
situation. 

Some  of  the  cries  or  barking  of  the  sea-lions  seemed 
to  come  from  a  long  distance  under  the  mountain, 
and,  while  it  was  mere  conjecture,  I  should  say  four  or 
five  hundred  or  more  feet,  seemingly  carrying  out  the 
idea  of  the  men  who  believed  that  the  cave  ran  com- 
pletely under  the  mountain  and  was  a  den  of  not  only 
sea-lions,  but  other  creatures  of  the  sea.  All  the  sea- 
lions  dashed  for  one  starlike  spot  in  the  cave,  the  open- 
ing through  which  we  came  ;  and  as  we  passed  out  I  saw 


294  Life  in  the  Open 

some  swimming  beneath  the  boat,  joining  a  herd  beyond 
the  entrance,  when  they  swam  away  to  Point  Diablo,  with 
necks  out  of  water,  hurling  at  us  literal  yelps  of  fear  and 
rage.  The  story  is  told  of  two  boatloads  of  men  who 
went  in  here  to  capture  sea-lions.  One  boat  remained 
at  the  entrance  to  keep  them  in,  while  the  other  went 
into  the  cave.  As  a  result  the  lions  rushed  at  the 
opening  and,  finding  it  stopped,  clambered  into  and 
over  the  boat,  sinking  it  and  injuring  some  of  the  men. 

At  the  present  time  the  place  where  sea-lions  are 
mostly  caught  is  on  the  south-west  side  of  the  island, 
where  the  sea  often  makes  a  breach  against  the  high 
cliffs.  In  an  isolated  cleft  of  the  rocks  is  a  large 
rookery  impossible  to  reach  in  rough  water,  but  so 
situated  that  the  herd  cannot  well  escape  when  the  men 
go  ashore.  The  latter  are  skilled  cattlemen,  who  go 
over  on  a  power  launch,  anchor  off  the  island,  and  wait 
for  a  day  when  the  lions  are  all  on  the  rocks.  Then 
the  boats  work  carefully  in,  watching  their  chance,  the 
rowers  backing  water  and  holding  the  boat  on  the  big 
waves  until  the  sea-lion  hunters  have  an  opportunity  to 
jump  ashore.  Generally  two  or  three  men  make  the 
attempt  at  one  time,  and  drive  the  lions  back  for  some 
distance  into  a  cul  de  sac. 

When  the  animals  find  they  are  cornered,  they 
turn  and  charge  the  men,  and  it  requires  no  little  nerve 
to  stand  and  face  the  open  mouths  of  the  roaring  an- 
imals, which  come  on  with  a  curious  galloping,  mena- 
cing motion.  It  is  at  this  psychological  moment  that 


The  Sea-Lion's  Den  295 

the  men  use  their  riatas,  and  thus  rarely  miss  the  lions, 
who  hold  their  heads  high  in  the  air,  presenting  an  easy 
mark  for  the  roper.  The  moment  the  riata  falls  and  the 
game  is  caught,  the  men  dash  for  the  rocks,  where  they 
can  take  a  turn  with  their  ropes.  The  lions  make  a 
desperate  effort  to  escape  ;  some  break  away,  bite  off 
the  rope,  or  slip  it  over  their  heads ;  others  reach  the 
water,  and  the  men  have  to  be  active  to  escape  the  horde 
of  crazed  animals,  some  of  which  weigh  a  thousand 
pounds,  which  come  sliding  down  the  kelp  toboggan. 
After  a  long  struggle  the  sea-lions  are  mastered ;  the 
most  troublesome  are  gagged  and  bound,  thrown  over 
and  towed  to  boxes  into  which  they  are  placed,  later 
being  hoisted  aboard  the  launch  and  carried  to  Santa 
Barbara,  from  which  place  they  are  shipped  to  museums 
or  zoological  gardens  all  over  the  world.  ,  j 

On  Santa  Rosa  Island,  which  is  twenty  miles  or  more 
in  length,  there  are  several  rookeries  where  many  sea- 
lions  can  be  found  in  winter,  and  at  San  Nicolas,  about 
eighty  miles  from  San  Pedro,  there  are  a  number.  San 
Nicolas  is  a  region  of  fierce  storms,  and  to  hear  the 
roar  of  the  sea-lions  combined  with  that  of  the  sea,  to 
watch  the  flying  clouds  and  wild  waves  piling  in,  is 
something  I  will  long  remember.  We  had  tried 
several  times  to  land  here,  and  had  been  driven  off 
time  and  again  ;  but  one  morning  we  gained  the  long 
sandy  spit  that  like  a  miniature  Cape  Cod  is  reaching 
out  into  the  sea  from  San  Nicolas.  It  was  on  the  lee 
side,  but  a  strong  dangerous  current  was  setting  along 


296  Life  in  the  Open 

the  island,  and  the  sea  rushing  in  in  big  rollers  from  the 
west,  while  others  came  around  the  point  of  the  island 
and  joined  them,  making  the  landing  particularly 
dangerous.  On  the  rocky  point  we  could  see  the  lions, 
and  their  roars  came  in  muffled  notes  as  the  wind  swept 
over  this  deserted  spot  seemingly  destined  to  go  into 
the  sea. 

For  some  time  we  rode  the  breakers  watching  for  an 
opportunity,  and  when  the  waves  came  in  less  menacing 
size  we  rowed  in  on  the  top  of  one,  leaped  over  as  the 
boat  struck  the  beach,  and  dragged  it  up  the  sands. 
One  man  lived  on  this  wind-swept  place  ;  and  he  was  on 
the  beach  to  meet  us.  Probably  in  all  America  there  is 
not  a  more  desolate  spot,  or  a  more  windy  one,  yet  here 
was  a  man,  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.  He  told  us 
that  he  had  built  his  home  down  among  the  rocks  so 
that  it  would  not  be  blown  into  the  sea.  I  noticed 
great  stones  on  the  roof  ;  these  he  said  were  to  hold  it 
down,  as  the  wind  was  terrible.  He  also  seemed  to  fear 
the  sea-lions,  and  said  that  during  heavy  storms  they 
came  up  around  his  hut  and  roared  and  barked. 

This  great  rookery  was  on  the  south  end  of  the 
island,  low  and  rocky,  and  the  herd  was  on  the  main 
beach.  Some  of  the  lions  here  were  very  large,  espe- 
cially the  bulls,  but  they  paid  but  little  attention  to  us. 

About  forty  miles  south  of  San  Nicolas  lies  the 
large  island  of  San  Clemente,  twenty  miles  long.  I 
found  a  number  of  rookeries  here,  with  many  sea-lions  ; 
in  nearly  every  instance  in  isolated  places. 


The  Sea-Lion's  Den  297 

At  Santa  Catalina  the  largest  rookery  of  sea-lions  is 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  best  fishing  ground, 
many  kinds  of  fishes  abounding  within  a  few  hundred 
feet  of  the  place,  and  while  the  sea-lions  are  increasing 
there  is  never  any  discernible  decrease  in  the  fish  sup- 
ply. The  greatest  cause  of  complaint  against  the  sea- 
lions  comes  from  the  net  fishermen,  who  claim  that  they 
visit  the  nets  with  great  regularity  and  take  out  the  fish. 

I  observed  this  on  several  occasions.  A  sea-lion 
stationed  itself  near  a  net  in  the  kelp,  and  every  few 
minutes  dived  down  and  swam  along  the  net,  biting  off 
the  body  of  any  fish  that  became  gilled.  This  was  done 
despite  the  fact  that  I  was  near  the  net  in  a  boat,  with 
the  Italian  owner,  who  hurled  imprecations  at  the  sea- 
lion  when  it  came  up  from  the  net  with  a  large  rock 
bass  in  its  mouth  and  deliberately  tossed  it  into  the  air, 
as  though  to  irritate  the  fisherman,  who,  while  robbed  in 
the  grossest  manner,  was  prevented  by  law  from  shoot- 
ing the  animals.  No  more  interesting  feature  of  wild 
life  can  be  seen  on  the  Pacific  Coast  than  the  sea-lion 
rookeries,  and  the  ease  and  comfort  with  which  one 
reaches  them  render  the  sport  of  bringing  them  down 
with  the  camera  very  enjoyable. 


Chapter  XX 

Trolling  in  Deep  Water 

IN'  sailing  down   the    Santa  Catalina  Channel   one 
may  often  meet  several  trim  launches  flying  gay 
flags,  several  miles  off  the  bay  of  Avalon.      The 
boats  are  models  of  comfort  and  utility  ;  about  twenty 
feet  in  length,  with  an  eight-horse-power  engine,  and 
two  seats  astern  and  facing  it  for  the  anglers,  whose  rods 
point  to  port  and  starboard.     The  boatman  is  engineer, 
gaffer  and  steersman,  and  sits  behind  them  as  they  cruise 
up  and  down  the  blue  water,  which  may  be  a  thousand 
or  more  feet  deep  and  doubtless  is. 

The  game  here  is  the  bonito  and  albacore,  the  latter 
a  large  mackerel-like  fish  allied  to  the  bonito  ;  big-eyed, 
stout  of  body,  coloured  a  rich  blue,  and  provided  with  a 
pair  of  side  fins  that  are  so  long  they  look  like  sabres 
hung  to  the  side  of  this  doughty  swashbuckler  of  the 

sea. 

The  albacore  is  found  here  almost  the  entire  year, 
preferring  the  channel,  away  from  land,  though  I 
have  taken  it  inshore  along  the  kelp  beds.  The  average 


& 
301 


302  Life  in  the  Open 

catch  weighs  ten  or  fifteen  pounds  ;  and  in  the  San 
Clemente  Channel,  to  the  west,  albacores  have  been 
caught  that  weighed  one  hundred  pounds  and  were 
doubtless  the  equal  of  any  tuna  of  the  same  size. 

Another  albacore,  ranking  with  the  tuna  as  a  game 
fish  and  weighing  about  fifty  pounds,  is  the  yellow-fin, 
or  Japanese  hirenaga  (Sermo  macropterus).  This  fish, 
common  at  Nagadaka,  appeared  at  Santa  Catalina  in 
September  of  1905,  affording  rare  sport ;  all  the  catches 
averaged  fifty  pounds. 

The  albacore  is  always  on  the  move,  and  going  fast ; 
it  stands  not  on  the  order  of  going,  but  appears  to  be 
on  the  constant  lookout  for  game  or  victims  of  some 
kind  ;  hence  it  is  easy  game  for  the  angler,  who  rigs  his 
lure  with  a  big  smelt  or  a  flying-fish,  and  moving  fast 
has  a  continuous  series  of  strikes — the  fish  making 
a  very  gamy  play,  though,  like  nearly  all  deep 
sea  fish,  inclined  to  sulk,  although  taken  on  the 
surface. 

The  most  remarkable  rod  catch  ever  made  in  these 
waters  was  of  albacore.  The  Avalon  boatmen  who  took 
out  anglers  and  looked  on,  but  never  fished,  one  day  de- 
cided to  go  a-fishing ;  so  they  refused  work  and  every 
launch  went  out  with  its  owner  and  a  friend  in  the 
seats,  bound  for  the  trolling  ground  offshore.  They  had 
agreed  on  the  terms  of  the  tournament,  had  prizes  and 
cups,  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  about  thirty  rods  re- 
ported about  an  average  of  ten  albacores  each  ranging 
from  ten  to  thirty  pounds,  the  aggregate  making  a 


PQ 


Trolling  in  Deep  Water  303 

remarkable  display.      The  catch    was    given    to    the 
townspeople. 

The  boatman  baits  the  line,  and  the  launch  moves 
on,  now  inshore,  but  still  in  deep  water  that  is  an  in- 
tense blue  to  the  very  cliff,  showing  that  the  island  is  a 
mountain  out  at  sea.  The  ocean  is  like  glass,  and  so 
clear  that  the  big  leaves  of  olive-hued  kelp  can  be  seen, 
sixty  feet  or  more  below,  slowly  waving  in  the  current. 

We  slack  out  forty  feet  of  line  and  are  watching  the 
charming  panorama  of  lofty  cliffs  and  silvery  gates  to 
deep  canons  which  wind  upward  into  the  mountains, 
when  ze-e-e-e-e-e,  wh-r-r-r-r-r!  goes  the  line  and  reel, 
and  something  with  fierce  energy  jerks  the  rod  almost 
clear  of  the  angler's  grip.  The  novice  turns  pale,  per- 
haps flushes,  amazed  at  the  ferocity  of  it  all ;  then  rallies 
and  gives  the  butt  to  one  of  the  gamiest  of  all  the  fishes 
of  the  sea.  Watch  the  marvellous  play,  the  rush  clear 
away  of  two  hundred  feet  despite  the  play  of  the  thumb 
on  the  heavy  brake.  Then  it  turns,  comes  swinging 
around  in  half  a  circle ;  now  at  the  surface,  now  plung- 
ing deep  into  the  blue  of  the  channel  to  make  the  rod 
bend  and  groan. 

Now  he  is  gaining,  reeling  for  life,  the  big  multiplier 
(and  it  must  be  big  to  hold  all  the  line  this  fish  will 
take)  eating  up  feet  and  yards  as  he  reels  and  reels. 
Now  it  is  away,  a  plunge  into  the  sea,  and  the  angler  is 
forced  to  "  pump "  it  up,  raising  the  rod  on  high  to 
drop  it  with  a  quick  motion,  reeling  all  the  while,  and 
gaining  four  or  five  feet  at  every  effort,  until  finally  a 


3°4  Life  in  the  Open 

glint  of  silver  and  green  is  seen  against  the  blue,  and 
along  the  quarter,  circling  the  boat,  bearing  off  bravely, 
flashing  in  the  sunlight,  is  a  splendid  bonito  (Sarda 
chilensis). 

Minutes  have  crept  away,  and  twenty  have  been 
captured  by  the  fish  that,  mad  with  fear,  turns  and 
plunges  downward  to  the  cry  of  the  reel — ze-e-e-e-e  / 
music  that  makes  the  watery  welkin  ring,  sounds  that 
stir  the  blood  and  flush  the  face.  The  rod  and  reel  is 
plied  deftly,  and  the  game  is  brought  to  gaff.  What  a 
fish  it  is  the  boatman  holds  up  !  three  feet  long  if  an 
inch,  with  black  stripes  fore  and  aft  ;  blue  or  green  on 
the  upper  side,  silver  below ;  and  an  eye  of  gold  and 
blue,  a  gem  in  itself. 

Twenty  pounds  is  the  verdict,  and  taken  on  a  six- 
teen-thread  line  in  just  twenty  minutes.  Here  is  joy 
enough,  one  would  think,  but  while  the  anglers  are  ad- 
miring the  fine  points  of  the  fish,  the  other  rod  gives 
tongue,  and  a  blare  of  sounds  strikes  the  air,  while  the 
rod  nods,  bends,  and  swings  up  and  down  as  though 
mad.  Away  go  feet  and  yards,  until  the  spool 
seems  to  be  melting  into  the  sea,  and  the  boatman 
whispers,  "  Stop  him,  sir,  or  he  '11  get  away  with  you 
altogether." 

Stop  him!  aye,  that 's  the  question,  but  how  ?  You 
are  pressing  your  right  thumb  on  the  line  with  all  your 
force.  Your  hand  is  numb,  and  the  rushing,  grinding 
cord,  a  mere  thread,  is  throwing  a  fine  spray  of  pow- 
dered leather  in  every  direction.  You  press  the  line 


•a 


Trolling  in  Deep  Water  305 

upon  the  rod  with  the  left  hand  and  give  the  unknown 
the  butt  to  the  very  danger  point,  until  the  rod  creaks, 
groans,  and  threatens  to  buckle,  and  then  the  unex- 
pected happens— the  fish  stops  of  its  own  accord  ;  stops 
somewhere  down  in  that  blue  abyss  three  hundred  feet 
away,  to  turn  and  come  bounding  up. 

All  the  tricks  of  the  salt  sea  trade  are  his  :  circling, 
sounding,  sulking,  bravado  ;  all  are  tried  in  turn.  Every 
effort  is  made  to  break  the  line  or  rod,  or  take  the 
angler  unawares  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose,  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  the  gaff  slips  beneath  it,  and  a  fifteen-pound 
albacore  (Sermo  alalunga)  is  taken  in  "out  of  the  wet," 
according  to  the  boatman. 

Out  go  the  lines  again,  and  in  a  few  moments  another 
bonito  is  hooked;  this  time  the  "skip-jack"  (Gym- 
nosarda  pelamis),  smaller,  but  quite  as  gamy  as  the  large 
bonito.  When  taken  from  the  water  it  is  a  veritable 
humming-bird  in  its  beauty  of  colouring  scintillating 
in  iridescent  tints  of  all  kinds. 

These  fishes  are  ocean  travellers,  and  found  out 
around  the  islands  nearly  the  entire  year.  Off  Santa 
Cruz  I  have  seen  schools  which  fairly  covered  the  sur- 
face for  acres  ;  and  from  the  Coronados,  north  and  south, 
they  are  the  common  fish  offshore,  running  with  the 
albacores  and  tunas,  all  at  times  forming  a  devastating 
army  ;  charging  the  schools  of  flying-fishes,  and  in  turn 
being  chased  by  the  orcas,  or  killers,  that  parade  up  and 
down  the  deep  channel  all  summer. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  this  fishing  ground  not 


3°6  Life  in  the  Open 

hard  to  explain.  The  mainland  shore  is  swept  by  the 
constantly  prevailing  west  wind,  and  by  ten  or  eleven 
o'clock,  earlier  or  later  as  the  case  may  be,  it  works  up  a 
sea  that  makes  angling  not  always  a  pleasure  ;  but  to 
the  south-west  of  Santa  Catalina  or  San  Clemente  there 
is  a  lee,  which  extends  many  miles,  in  which  the  small 
launches  can  ply  nearly  every  day  in  very  smooth  water, 
much  like  that  of  Lake  Placid,  the  St.  Lawrence,  or 
some  mountain  stream  ;  then  if  the  wind  springs  up  and 
comes  down  the  channel,  they  can  run  inshore,  where  it 
is  always  calm,  and  still  find  good  fishing.  There  is 
hardly  a  day  that  some  one  does  not  make  a  novel 
catch.  It  may  be  a  giant  sunfish,  or  a  dolphin,  the  same 
beautiful  fellow  of  many  colours  found  on  the  Atlantic 
Coast,  or  it  may  be  some  rare  fish  from  Hawaii,  that 
has  made  its  way  around  in  the  great  current  of  Japan  ; 
sword-fishes,  the  king  of  the  herring,  or  opah,  and  many 
more  make  up  the  season's  bag,  with  rod  or  spear. 

The  play  of  the  albacore  is  much  like  that  of  the 
bonito,  only  harder,  and  is  a  revelation  to  the  rod  fisher- 
man who  has  never  taken  large  game,  and  I  have 
known  a  fish  weighing  not  over  sixty-three  pounds 
to  tow  a  heavy  boat  and  fight  for  two  hours. 


Chapter  XXI 

The  California  Weakfish 

IN  all  probability  more  men  go  down  New  York  Bay 
for  weakfish  than  for  any  other  denizen  of  the 
shallow  waters,  and  thousands  have  sat  in  the  hot 
sun  on  the  edge  of  the  flats  at  the  mouth  of  the  river 
and  felt  well  repaid  with  a  four-  or  five-pound  weakfish. 

What  would  such  an  angler  say  to  a  fifty-pounder, 
not  one  but  a  dozen,  or  to  see  an  eighty-pounder  towing 
a  boat  across  a  placid  bay  ?  This  can  be  seen  in 
Southern  California,  or  from  the  Gulf  to  San  Francisco, 
as  the  Californians  have  a  weakfish  that  is  a  giant, 
ranging  up  to  one  hundred  pounds  or  more. 

The  fishes  of  the  largest  size  are  found  in  Lower 
California  in  the  Gulf  of  California.  I  have  been  told  of 
fine  sport  on  the  coast  north  of  Tiburon,  where  the 
tide  falls  very  low  and  comes  in  with  a  bore  like  that  of 
Hang  Chow  or  the  Bay  of  Fundy.  On  the  crest  of 
this  wave  comes  the  white  sea-bass,  as  it  is  called,  a 
typical  weakfish ;  and  down  in  the  Gulf  it  is  taken  by 
standing  on  the  beach  and  casting  into  the  surf,  in  which 


309 


Life  in  the  Open 

way  fishes  weighing  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  have 
been  landed. 

This  is  out  of  the  world  and  on  the  edge  of  a  desert, 
but  the  same  fish  comes  in  on  the  Californian  coast  in 
April  and  affords  a  short  season.  All  those  I  have 
caught  weighed  over  fifty  pounds,  this  being  about  the 
average  size  of  vast  schools  of  the  splendid  game. 
Santa  Catalina  and  San  Clemente  islands  appear  to  be 
in  the  line  of  migration  of  the  schools,  and  they  are 
taken  at  Port  Hartford  and  along  the  coast.  They  first 
appear,  so  far  as  known,  at  the  south  end  of  the  island, 
and  move  slowly  north,  entering  the  bays  and  lying 
under  the  schools  of  sardines  and  smelt  that  congregate 
here.  Thus  large  schools  will  enter  Avalon  Bay,  Ca- 
brillo,  and  others,  and  can  be  followed  up  as  the  fishes 
pass  north. 

I  once  ran  into  a  large  school  at  San  Clemente 
Island,  which  is  about  fifty  miles  offshore.  We  were 
lying  in  a  little  bay  when  a  ripple  on  the  surface  told  of 
a  large  school  of  fishes  of  some  kind,  and  pushing  off 
we  entered  the  largest  school  of  bass  I  have  ever  seen. 
They  were  fishes  of  the  largest  size,  and  were  so  tame 
that  they  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the  boat.  I  could 
easily  have  grained  or  speared  them. 

We  had  some  flying-fishes,  and  my  oarsman  hooking 
one  on,  I  cast  into  the  school  thirty  feet  away.  Down 
they  dropped,  then  a  whirl  of  flying  water,  a  miniature 
maelstrom,  and  a  fish  had  it.  Here  mark  the  difference 
between  game  of  one  kind  and  game  of  another.  The 


The  California  Weakfish  31 1 

fish  seized  the  enormous  bait  and  poised  like  a  big 
barracuda,  gulping  and  trying  to  swallow  it.  This  occu- 
pied several  seconds ;  then,  when  the  gastronomical  feat 
was  an  accomplished  fact,  it  felt  the  slender  wire  leader 
and  suspecting  that  something  was  wrong,  turned  and 
zeeee-zeee-zeee  !  sounded  the  click,  like  a  blare  of  silver 
trumpets.  One  hundred,  two  hundred,  three  hundred 
feet  of  line  went  hissing,  screaming  from  the  reel  before 
the  rush  was  stopped,  and  then  the  fish  came  dashing 
around  the  boat  in  a  great  circle  on  the.  surface,  present- 
ing a  fine  spectacle  of  strength,  beauty,  and  size. 

There  are  those  who  do  not  care  for  large  game — a 
fifty-pounder  does  not  appeal  to  them, — and  I  confess 
that  a  four-  or  five-pound  small-mouth  black  bass  meets 
my  fancy  best ;  yet  there  is  a  fascination  about  taking  a 
large  fish  ;  if  this  were  not  so  it  would  not  have  passed 
into  song  and  history  that  the  largest  fishes  always  es- 
cape. As  I  held  my  rod  stiff  and  played  gently  upon 
the  leather  pad,  mentally  figuring  on  the  chances,  I  half 
believed  my  fish  was  one  of  the  "  biggest "  and  would 
escape,  as  I  was  experimenting  with  a  very  fine  line  not 
equal  to  the  task.  The  Chinese  fisherman  has  an  es- 
pecial god  for  fishing.  You  may  see  it :  a  bunch  of  red 
firecracker-like  paper,  pinned  to  the  cabin  or  its  wall ; 
and  I  fancy  something  of  the  kind  was  around  about,  as 
the  particular  saint  that  has  charge  of  all  anglers  was 
very  kind  to  me  and  I  saved  my  catch.  He  made  a 
brave  fight  and  had  I  forced  him  the  line  and  I  would 
have  parted  company  long  before ;  but  I  handled  him 


312  Life  in  the  Open 

with  care,  gave  line  when  he  wished  it  very  decidedly, 
played  him  with  caution,  and  kept  down  what  ebullition 
of  spirits  I  might  have  had  until  the  game  was  in  the 
boat.  For  nearly  an  hour  this  gamy  fish  fought  me, 
nearly  always  on  the  surface,  gradually  reaching  off- 
shore, coming  to  the  gaff  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  and  tossing 
the  water  and  the  spray  over  the  boat  in  a  last  defiance. 
It  was  nearly  five  feet  in  length,  an  ocean  peacock ;  its 
head  ablaze  with  prismatic  tints,  its  sides  a  rich  grey, 
the  belly  silver,  looking  very  much  like  a  typical  salmon 
and  known  to  many  anglers  as  the  sea  salmon  ;  yet 
every  inch  a  weakfish,  and  a  fifty-pounder. * 

It  would  be  interesting  to  see  such  a  fish  played  on 
a  typical  salmon  rod,  to  try  the  relative  qualities  of  the 
game.  I  do  not  know  positively,  but  I  fancy  that  the 
white  sea-bass  would  wreck  the  salmon  rod,  or  make 
the  catch  so  long  that  the  most  patient  angler  would  be 
wearied. 

There  is  no  more  fascinating  spectacle  than  a  large 
school  of  bass  swimming  near  the  surface — types  of  dig- 
nity, strength,  and  reserve  force  ;  and  the  angler  should 
never  allow  the  opportunity  to  pass,  as  they  are  extremely 
fickle  and  the  season  a  short  one. 

There  is  still  another  weakfish  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, called  the  sea  trout,  that  does  not  grow  so  large, 
found  along  the  mainland  shore  where  the  larger  bass 
are  rare,  evidently  giving  the  surf  a  wide  berth. 

1  Cynoscion  nobile. 


The  California  Weakfish  3*3 

The  young  of  the  large  bass  are  also  called  sea 
trout ;  gamy  creatures  rarely  caught  except  in  the  gill- 
nets  of  the  professional  fishermen.  The  latter  have  an 
interesting  calling  at  the  channel  islands,  but  particu- 
larly in  the  Santa  Catalina  Channel,  where  all  the  mar- 
ket fishing  of  Los  Angeles  County  is  done.  The  men 
mostly  Italians,  go  out  in  their  typical  lateen-rigged 
boats  and  troll  for  the  barracuda,  that  schools  in  these 
waters  and  constitutes  a  favourite  market  fish.  With 
four  or  more  hand  lines  boomed  out,  these  boats  sail  up 
and  down  the  channel  and  catch  barracuda  by  the  score. 

Then  there  is  the  sand  dab  fisherman,  who  goes 
out  three  miles  from  Avalon  to  a  sandy-bottomed  coun- 
try where  he  lowers  a  line  three  hundred  feet  down,  with 
a  dozen  hooks  on  it,  allowing  it  to  remain  for  half  an 
hour,  then  winding  it  up  with  a  wheel.  The  catch,  a 
little  fish  resembling  a  sole,  is  considered  a  feast  for  the 
gods. 

Over  in  the  San  Clemente  Channel  we  may  see  still 
another  fisherman.  He  has  a  long  trawl  with  several 
hundred  hooks,  which  is  set  in  six  hundred  feet  of  water, 
coming  up  with  deep-sea  groupers — strange,  big-mouthed 
fishes  of  deep  red  and  crimson  tints. 

With  them  come  small  sharks  and  various  strange 
fishes,  and  enormous  hammer-heads  haunt  the  region, 
preying  upon  the  groupers  and  other  denizens  of  deep 
water.  The  gill-net  and  seine  fishermen  ply  a  profitable 
trade.  The  gill-nets  are  set  at  night  out  in  the  channel, 
and  a  variety  of  fishes  are  taken— Spanish  mackerel, 


3J4  Life  in  the  Open 

bonito,  barracuda,  flying-fish,  and  many  more ;  and  at 
times  a  thresher  shark  or  a  big  tuna  swims  against  the 
barricade.  The  former  at  once  whirls  over  and  over,  in- 
volving the  net  in  ruin,  while  the  tuna  dashes  through, 
making  a  round  hole.  The  seine  is  hauled  in  the  surf 
on  the  mainland  in  various  places,  and  surf  fish,  halibut, 
and  others  taken. 

The  surf  fishes  are  particularly  interesting,  as  they 
belong  to  a  peculiar  group  in  which  the  young  are  born 
alive.  The  latter,  which  I  have  kept  in  a  tank,  are  most 
interesting  little  creatures,  very  tame,  feeding  from  the 
hand,  and  schooling  like  sardines.  No  more  interesting 
locality  in  which  to  fish  and  study  fishes  can  be  found 
than  in  the  waters  off  the  coast  of  Southern  California, 
as  it  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  neutral  zone  where  fishes 
meet  from  widely  separated  regions,  from  Hawaii  to 
Mexico  and  beyond.  It  is  also  the  breeding  ground  for 
many  fishes,  and  the  resort  of  countless  wild  sea  roamers, 
as  bonito,  mackerel,  tuna,  sunfish,  dolphin,  and  many 
more  which  can  be  found  here  in  the  various  seasons. 


Chapter  XXII 

A  Window  ot  the  Sea 

IN  the  old  days  of  Roman  supremacy  it  was  the  cus- 
tom of  epicures  and  gentlemen  of  cultivation  and 
well  ripened  tastes  to  have  the  surmullet  or  the 
maigre  served  that  day  introduced  on  the  splendidly 
appointed  table  in  an  aquarium,  where  its  freshness 
was  demonstrated  beyond  question  to  the  assembled 
guests. 

The  angler  can  now  go  a-fishing  in  Avalon  Bay,  sit 
in  the  boat  and  fish  while  looking  down  through  a  win- 
dow of  the  sea ;  not  only  see  his  game  slightly  magnified, 
but  watch  it  take  the  lure  in  water  from  ten  to  fifty  feet 
deep,  thus  observing  what  has  nearly  always  been  a 
mystery  to  the  fisherman. 

Where  this  pastime  is  possible,  twenty  miles  out  at 
sea,  due  to  the  clearness  and  absolute  stillness  of  the 
water,  a  fleet  of  glass-bottom  boats  is  found ;  ranging 
from  a  rowboat  with  a  window  for  a  single,  or  two  an- 
glers, to  a  steamer  holding  fifty  or  more  passengers 
who  drift  over  the  kelp  beds  to  enjoy  the  vistas  of 

317 


Life  in  the  Open 

marine  scenery  and  watch  the  myriads  of  strange  ani- 
mals seen  there.  The  channel  islands  of  Southern 
California  are  the  tops  of  offshore  Sierras,  rising  out  of 
the  sea ;  and  could  we  see  them  divested  of  the  ocean 
they  would  look  like  gigantic  needles  rising  from  the 
bottom.  All  have  a  peculiar  beard  or  protecting  growth 
of  weed  that  constitutes  a  forest  about  them,  a  gigantic 
sea  plant  rising  from  water  sixty  or  more  feet  in  depth 
and  forming  a  natural  wave-break  and  a  home  for  count- 
less marine  animals.  The  vines  are  often  one  hundred 
feet  in  length,  vast  cables  with  broad  crimpled  leaves  of 
a  rich  dark  olive  hue,  which  assume  graceful  shapes  in 
the  tide,  and  when  one  peers  down  into  the  blue  water 
the  scene  is  often  a  revelation  ;  a  new  world  is  opened 
up,  and  the  real  beauty  of  oceanic  or  submarine  scenery 
is  appreciated.  The  great  leaves  are  carried  by  the  fitful 
currents  that  sweep  these  islands  in  every  direction. 
Sometimes  they  are  extended  at  full  length  and  appear 
like  a  horde  of  green  snakes  ;  again  they  lie  at  the  sur- 
face, listless  and  drooping,  forming  myriads  of  halls, 
parterres,  nooks  and  corners  of  much  beauty,  the  real 
dark,  unfathomed  cave  of  the  ocean. 

So  attractive  are  these  kelpian  forests,  so  fascinating 
to  investigate,  that  the  glass-bottom-boat  voyages  to 
them  have  become  a  pastime  so  well  defined  that  thou- 
sands indulge  in  it,  and  the  fleet  with  windows  in  the 
bottom  cruises  up  and  down  the  smooth  waters,  by  the 
sea-lion  rookeries,  affording  one  of  the  most  pleasing 
and  novel  experiences  to  be  enjoyed  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 


A  Window  of  the  Sea  319 

At  Avalon  there  are  no  hackmen;  it  is  a  sort  of 
mountain  Venice,  where  carriages  are  at  a  discount, 
except  for  mountain  climbing.  One  takes  a  sea  auto- 
mobile, numbers  of  which  lie  in  the  bay,  and  the  captains 
of  the  glass-bottom  boats  replace  the  hackmen  of  the 
mainland  and  cry  the  merits  of  their  strange  craft,  each 
of  which  claims  to  the  knowledge  of  some  especially 
beautiful  sea  meadow  or  glade  which  he  will  take  you 
over  for  the  small  sum  of  two  bits. 

These  crafts  are  of  all  sizes  and  are  significant  of  the 
attractions  of  the  gardens  of  the  sea,  and  doubtless  the 
study  of  marine  zoology  never  had  more  patrons  than  at 
this  isle  of  summer  where  thousands  of  persons  yearly 
make  the  safe  and  picturesque  voyage. 

The  glass  window  in  the  boat  is  set  in  a  few  inches 
from  the  bottom  so  that  when  the  boat  grounds  the  glass 
does  not.  A  large  oblong  well  is  built  in  the  boat,  its 
edges  being  padded ;  and  about  this  from  one  to  fifty 
observers  can  sit  and  gaze  down  at  the  passing  throng 
a  succession  of  ejaculations  expressing  the  delight  and 
satisfaction  of  the  voyagers.  The  skipper  of  the  craft 
discourses  learnedly  and  always  picturesquely  on  the 
strange  creatures  that  pass  in  view.  The  captain  of  the 
glass-bottom  boat  is  generally  a  character :  amiable, 
courteous  to  a  degree,  replete  with  a  marvellous,  some- 
times fearsome  store  of  facts  relating  to  the  wonders  of 
the  deep,  which  he  shares  with  his  guests,  affording  a 
most  interesting  divertisement. 

The   voyager   when    the   glass-bottom   boat    starts 


320  Life  in  the  Open 

is  first  regaled  with  the  sandy  beach,  in  three  or  four 
feet  of  water.  He  sees  the  wave  lines,  the  effect  of 
waves  on  soft  sand,  the  delicate  shading  of  the  bottom 
in  grays  innumerable  ;  now  the  collar-like  egg  of  a 
univalve  or  the  sharp  eye  of  a  sole  or  halibut  protrud- 
ing from  the  sand.  A  school  of  smelt  dart  by,  pursued 
by  a  bass  ;  and  as  the  water  deepens  bands  of  small 
fish,  gleaming  like  silver,  appear ;  then  a  black  cormo- 
rant dashing  after  them,  or  perchance  a  sea-lion  brows- 
ing on  the  bottom  in  pursuit  of  prey.  Suddenly  the 
light  grows  dimmer ;  quaint  shadows  appear  on  the  bot- 
tom, and  almost  without  warning  the  lookers  on  are  in 
the  depths  of  the  kelpian  forest 

The  fitness  of  the  term  hanging  gardens  is  apparent, 
as  the  great  leaves  appear  to  rise  near  the  surface,  then 
droop  over,  forming  graceful  arches  and  loops  and 
conveying  the  impression  of  being  suspended  at  the 
surface.  The  colour  is  a  deep  olive,  grading  to  yellow  ; 
the  leaves  a  foot  or  more  wide  and  very  long ;  their 
edges  crimpled.  Each  one  is  seen  to  be  covered  with  a 
lacelike  network  of  great  beauty.  Delicate  plumes 
wave  to  and  fro,  telling  of  worms  or  minute  sertularians. 
Here  the  tracery  is  white,  like  frosted  silver,  the  limy 
deposit  of  some  animal,  while  others  are  of  rich  lavender 
hues,  all  plainly  seen  as  the  great  leaves  are  brushed 
across  the  glass  window.  The  vagrant  beams  of  light 
which  strike  the  surface  bring  out  the  tints  and  shades 
in  high  relief.  Through  a  green  loop  of  kelp  is  seen 
the  turquoise  blue  of  deep  water,  and  poised  in  it  an 


A  Window  of  the  Sea  321 

angel  fish  of  vivid  golden  yellow,  a  tint  that  persists  in 
taking  black  through  the  camera.  A  school  of  these 
fishes  swims  into  view,  turning  their  gorgeous  shapes 
upward  and  eying  the  strange  window  in  which  are 
mirrored  many  faces.  With  them  are  smaller  ones  of  a 
vivid  blue  iridescence,  suggesting  the  strange  vagaries 
of  nature,  as  the  very  young  are  almost  entirely  blue, 
and  called  by  our  skipper  "  electric  fishes."  But  as 
they  grow  the  blue  merges  into  orange,  and  the  adult 
fish  blooms  out  in  its  perfect  coat  of  gold. 

On  the  leaves  are  seen  singular  crabs,  red  and  olive, 
with  square  shells,  and  deeper  in  the  crevices  of  the 
moss-covered  rock  are  gigantic  spider  crabs  a  foot 
across,  mimicking  the  rocks  in  shape  and  colour.  The 
nature  of  the  forest  is  ever  changing.  Now  great  pom- 
pons of  a  rich  dark  weed  appear,  in  splendid  tints, 
born  of  the  deep  sea.  It  waves  gracefully  as  the  slight 
swell  comes  in,  and  as  it  turns  aside  displays  the  very 
giant  of  the  star-fishes,  a  huge  creature  garbed  in  red, 
with  white  spikes  or  tubercles  scattered  over  it,  a  most 
conspicuous  object  among  the  greens.  The  star-fish  is 
twelve  inches  across,  and  slowly  moves  along  by  the 
aid  of  its  myriad  feet.  In  the  crevices  are  smaller  stars  ; 
some  a  vivid  red,  others  dark,  with  arms  like  snakes. 

The  bottom  changes  now  to  a  finer  moss  or  weed,  a 
deep  velvet  green  here  or  there,  changing  to  iridescent 
tints  ;  and  in  it  lie  big,  slug-like,  brick-red  sea-cucum- 
bers ;  and  then — presto  !  the  captain  of  the  glass-bottom 
boat  transports  us  to  a  deep  glen  in  which  lacelike  plants 


322  Life  in  the  Open 

rise  and  poise — a  tracery  of  ineffable  delicacy  and 
beauty,  forming  a  natural  canopy  for  numbers  of  long- 
spined  black  echini,  or  sea-urchins  ;  formidable  creat- 
ures, sea-porcupines,  that  recognise  the  presence  of 
some  possible  enemy,  and  attempt  to  hide  by  plunging 
deeper  into  the  maze.  Splashes  of  white  tell  of  a  white 
sea-urchin,  and  almost  every  nook  and  corner  of  this 
sea-forest  is  inhabited  by  these  aggressive  creatures. 

The  bottom  of  the  sea  along  this  rocky  shore  is 
a  colour  scheme  of  marvellous  beauty.  Green  is  the  pre- 
dominating hue,  but  green  in  countless  shades,  tones, 
and  expressions.  Sometimes  a  short  wiry  weed  covers 
the  bottom,  but  it  is  constantly  being  waved  aside 
to  display  other  and  more  beautiful  colours :  weeds  in 
purple,  brown,  rocks  of  lavender  encrusted  with  a  flam- 
ing red  sponge  or  a  mass  of  pink  serpulse,  from  which 
rises  the  delicate  mauve  tracery  of  their  breathing 
organs.  This  sea  tapestry  is  constantly  in  motion,  so 
has  the  appearance  of  changing  light  and  shade,  tint 
and  colour,  every  moment  displaying  some  new  creature 
to  the  voyagers  of  the  curious  craft  with  windows  look- 
ing down  into  the  sea. 

As  it  glides  along,  the  bottom  seemingly  slipping 
away,  a  strange  pointed  snakelike  head  appears,  pro- 
jecting from  the  algae.  It  turns,  glides  forward  with  a 
singular  motion,  and  displays  itself ;  an  eel  or 
moray,  four  feet  or  more  in  length  and  proportion- 
ately robust.  It  is  a  dark  brown  colour,  spotted 
here  and  there  with  yellow,  and  should  it  open 


O 
M 

s 

'5/3 

c 

08 


A  Window  of  the  Sea  323 

its  mouth  it  would  display  menacing  fanglike 
teeth. 

The  glass  window  is  now  poised  over  a  group  of 
forms  which  must  be  the  flowers  of  this  marine  forest. 
They  are  gigantic  sea-anemones,  four  or  five  inches 
across  and  several  tall,  while  radiating  from  the  circum- 
ference are  innumerable  mauve  and  purple  petals  which 
give  the  lowly  animal,  a  cousin  of  the  corals,  a  startling 
resemblance  to  a  Burbank  daisy,  or  some  large  flower 
of  that  class.  Some  are  fully  expanded,  standing  firm 
and  erect ;  others  are  closed,  the  petals  drawn  in  so  that 
they  appear  to  be  mere  mounds  of  mauve  on  the  rocks. 
Near  them  are  true  corals,  which  appear  to  be  anem- 
ones, the  delicate  pellucid  tentacles  rising  above  the 
limy  tube.  Moving  offshore,  huge  comet-like  jellies  may 
be  seen,  twenty  to  thirty  feet  in  length,  with  dark 
lavender  markings,  or  more  delicate  and  fairy-like  liv- 
ing traceries  drifting  in  the  current,  standing  out  against 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sea.  Large  fishes  poise  in  the 
lower  depths,  the  large  sea-bass  mimicking  the  folds  of 
the  great  kelpian  forest  that  rolls  and  sways  above  them 
in  the  current. 

Nature  is  a  very  clever  masquerader,  and  has  ap- 
parently so  bedecked  several  large  fishes  that  they  find 
abundant  protection  in  the  resemblance  to  the  crimpled 
leaves  of  the  kelp.  None  of  the  lookers-on  can  see  the 
kelp-fish  which  the  skipper  assures  them  is  directly  be- 
fore their  eyes.  But  suddenly  the  leaf,  or  what  they 
thought  was  a  leaf,  stirs,  unbends,  and  resolves  itself 


324  Life  in  the  Open 

into  a  fish,  marvellous  in  its  resemblance  to  the  leaves 
among  which  it  lives.  The  mimic  is  a  foot  in  length, 
of  a  delicate  green,  tending  to  yellow,  the  exact  tint  of 
the  kelp,  even  the  paler  whitish  spots  being  simulated  ; 
not  only  this,  but  the  kelp-fish  poises  in  the  hanging 
gardens  either  on  its  head  or  tail,  or  partly  recumbent, 
so  that  it  has  assumed  the  exact  position  of  the  leaves 
it  so  closely  imitates.  It  is  long,  slender,  with  a  high 
fin  extending  its  entire  length ;  a  pointed  mouth,  and 
eyes  having  the  strange  faculty  of  following  one  around, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  eyes  of  old  portraits. 

The  window  drifts  past  a  slug-like  animal  lying  on 
painted  rocks,  the  Mche  de  mer  of  the  Chinese,  in  which 
lives  the  strange  glass-like  fish  fierasfer.  Here  is  a 
colony  of  mimic  flowers,  serpulse,  with  crowns  of  red, 
blue,  and  seeming  gold.  The  lightest  jar  on  the  boat 
and  they  are  gone,  to  appear  slowly  unfolding  like 
flowers.  Near  them  are  other  tube-building  worms,  with 
similar  organs ;  and  out  from  beneath  a  richly-coloured 
rock  wave  the  "  whips  "  of  the  spiny  lobster  or  crawfish 
— a  lobster  in  all  but  the  large  claws. 

The  animals  of  the  hanging  gardens  are  not  con- 
fined to  the  kelp  or  to  the  rocks  of  the  bottom.  The 
blue  water  where  the  sunlight  enters  brings  out  myri- 
ads of  delicate  forms,  poising,  drifting,  swimming,  the 
veritable  gems  of  the  sea.  Some  are  red  as  the  ruby ; 
others  blue  like  sapphire  ;  some  yellow,  white,  brown,  or 
emitting  vivid  flashes  of  seeming  phosphorescent  light. 
Ocean  sapphires  they  are  called ;  the  true  gems  of  the 


A  Window  of  the  Sea  325 

sea,  thickly  strewn  in  the  deep  blue  water.  Sweeping 
by,  poised  in  classic  shapes,  are  the  smaller  jelly-fishes ; 
crystal  vases,  so  delicate  that  the  rich  tone  of  the  ocean 
can  be  seen  through  them,  changing  to  a  steely  blue. 
Some  are  mere  spectres,  a  tracery  of  lace ;  others  rich 
in  colours  and  flaunting  long  trains. 

Nearly  all  these  pellucid  crafts  move  by  slow  flap- 
ping of  the  umbrella-like  disk ;  but  here  is  a  jelly,  the 
Pkysophora,  which  has  a  series  of  pumps  by  which  it 
shoots  along  through  the  water.  No  more  beautiful 
object  can  be  conceived  than  this ;  ablaze  with  colours — 
pink,  white,  blue,  and  quicksilver ;  darting  through  the 
azure  waters  that  form  the  atmosphere  of  the  floating 
garden. 

As  the  boat  moves  out  into  deep  water  the  purity  of 
this  aqueous  sky  is  seen,  as  fifty  feet  below  the  rocks 
are  plainly  visible,  and  the  dim  shapes  of  kelp  leaves 
faintly  outlined  far  beyond.  Here  large  fishes  float : 
the  graceful  sheep's-head,  peculiar  to  the  region,  the 
male  having  enormous  red  and  black  stripes,  a  blunt 
forehead,  and  the  lower  jaw  of  pure  white.  The  female 
is  a  radiant  creature,  with  beautiful  eyes,  and  often  red, 
brown,  or  white.  These  fishes  are  easily  attracted  to 
the  boat  by  a  judicious  display  of  bait,  where  their 
graceful  forms  can  be  plainly  observed. 

Now  the  window  is  over  deep  water,  to  see  the  pass- 
ing school  of  barracuda :  tens  of  thousands  of  long, 
slender,  pike-shaped  fishes,  all  headed  in  one  direction, 
swimming  slowly,  a  picture  of  a  thousand  staring  black 


326  Life  in  the  Open 

eyes  dotting  the  sea.  Suddenly  they  disappear,  as 
though  some  shutter  had  been  snapped,  and  into  the 
field  dash  a  school  of  large  sea-bass,  the  splendid  game 
fish  of  this  region.  Again  the  window  approaches  shoal 
water,  and  for  several  miles  it  follows  along  this  fishes' 
highway,  providing  the  voyagers  with  an  ever-changing 
panorama  of  marine  scenery.  Now  it  will  be  a  shoal  of 
blue  perch,  a  fish  that  affects  the  kelp  forest  and 
presents  a  sharp  contrast  to  it  in  its  vivid  tint. 

These  fish  like  to  bask  and  sport  near  the  surface, 
and  the  window  appears  full  of  them  as  it  moves  along. 
Rock  bass,  singly  and  in  schools,  are  seen  poised  in 
alcoves  of  the  kelp,  richly  striped  brown  and  black  ;  and 
here  the  radiant  "  white  "  fish,  as  blue  as  the  water,  with 
long  and  beautiful  fins,  while  in  the  depths  below 
other  and  interesting  forms  are  seen,  all  slightly 
magnified  by  the  glass. 

In  and  out,  now  in  shallows  where  the  velvet-like 
rocks  are  near  the  surface,  now  offshore,  following  in 
the  trail  of  some  vagrant  shark,  the  shallow  steamer 
moves,  affording  strange  vistas  of  the  sea  and  its  secrets, 
and  emphasising  the  fact  that  a  new  method  of  study 
has  been  found  in  the  field  of  popular  science  that  is  at 
once  a  pastime  and  recreation. 


Chapter  XXIII 

Cruising  Along  the  Channel  Islands 

STRUNG  along  the  coast  of  Southern  California 
are  several  groups  of  islands  :  the  Coronados  of 
San  Diego,  the  Santa  Catalina  group,  off  Los 
Angeles  County,  and  the  Santa  Barbara  Islands,  oppo- 
site the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains,  that  rise  in  graceful 
lines  over  the  old  Spanish  town,  one  of  the  few  in 
Southern  California  still  possessing  strong  individuality. 
The  Coronados  are  small,  and  have  no  permanent 
residents.  The  Santa  Catalina  group  consists  of  four 
islands  :  Santa  Catalina,  eighteen  miles  offshore,  twen- 
ty-two miles  long  and  sixty  around  ;  Santa  Barbara 
Rock,  twenty-five  miles  north  ;  San  Nicolas,  eighty 
miles  out  at  sea,  to  the  north-west,  and  San  Clemente, 
nearly  as  large  as  Santa  Catalina,  forty  miles  to  the 
south-west  from  the  mainland.  The  Santa  Barbara 
Islands  lie  on  the  channel  of  that  name,  about  twenty 
miles  offshore,  and  are  four  in  number :  Anacapa, 
Santa  Cruz,  Santa  Rosa,  and  San  Miguel,  all  but  the 
former  being  of  large  size. 

329 


33°  Life  in  the  Open 

Nearly  all  these  islands  are  peaks  of  an  offshore 
coast  range,  thrust  up  here  ages  ago,  and  we  can 
imagine  them  lofty  isolated  peaks  rising  from  a  ridge 
that  doubtless  runs  along  shore  far  to  the  south. 

Only  one  of  these  groups,  Santa  Catalina,  has  a 
permanent  settlement,  the  town  of  Avalon.  This  is  the 
only  inhabited  island  open  to  the  public  and  having 
regular  daily  boats.  Avalon  is  a  fully-fledged  and  well- 
equipped  community,  with  hotels,  cottages,  homes,  and 
what  is  without  question  the  finest  rod  fishing  for 
large  game  fishes  in  the  world.  This  and  its  singu- 
larly perfect  climate  have  given  Santa  Catalina  a  wide 
reputation. 

The  town  stands  on  a  miniature  crescent-shaped  bay 
from  which  a  deep  caflon  reaches  away,  stopped  by  a 
mountain  range  two  miles  to  the  west.  The  vale  of  Ava- 
lon is  a  romantic  and  beautiful  amphitheatre,  surrounded 
by  ranges  of  hills  which  rise  one  above  the  other  in  a 
jumble  of  peaks.  In  winter  it  is  green,  a  marvellous  con- 
trast to  the  deep  blue  of  the  sea,  in  which  the  island 
rests  in  peace  and  tranquillity,  almost  the  only  object 
that  is  "  pacific"  in  this  sea  of  Balboa.  The  harbour  of 
Avalon  is  a  miniature  Naples,  and  the  climate  is  so 
singular  that  from  April  to  November,  and  often 
December,  a  storm  or  squall  of  any  kind  is  unknown. 
Nearly  every  day  there  is  a  stiff  breeze  a  short  distance 
out,  but  along  the  rocky  coast,  near  shore,  the  high 
mountains  ranging  up  to  twenty-two  hundred  feet  pro- 
duce a  lee  so  that  small  boats  are  perfectly  safe. 


Cruising  Along  the  Channel  Islands  33* 

Twenty  miles  out  to  sea,  the  island  is  perforce  a 
yachting  centre,  and  the  only  port  in  Southern  California, 
except  Santa  Barbara,  San  Pedro  and  San  Diego,  where 
there  is  an  exensive  boating  and  sailing  contingent, 
safe  at  all  times ;  and  the  little  bay  is  filled  with  craft  of 
all  kinds,  racing  auto  boats,  fleets  of  glass-bottom  boats, 
while  launches  extend  out  from  every  boatman's  stand, 
filling  the  south  end  of  the  beautiful  bay  and  form- 
ing an  attractive  colour  scheme. 

Here  is  often  the  rendezvous  of  the  South  Coast 
Yacht  Club.  The  yachts  cruise  among  the  islands, 
San  Clemente,  twenty  miles  distant,  being  an  interesting 
point  for  its  fine  fishing  and  the  fact  that,  like  all  the 
islands,  it  had  at  one  time  a  large  and  vigorous  native 
population  whose  strange  implements  are  found  buried 
in  the  shifting  sand  dunes  that  are  constantly  changing 
shapes.  San  Clemente  is  government  property,  and  is 
rented  to  sheep  herders,  from  whom  permission  must  be 
had  before  landing. 

An  interesting  cruise  can  be  made  to  San  Nicolas, 
about  eighty  miles  from  Avalon.  The  island  is  in  the 
region  of  eternal  winds.  I  made  three  attempts  to 
reach  it  in  a  sixty-ton  yacht,  each  time  being  driven 
back  by  heavy  winds,  or  having  to  lay  to  in  the  heavy 
sea.  Approaching  it,  the  island  is  seen  to  be  low-ly- 
ing, about  seven  miles  long,  with  mountains  or  hills  in 
the  centre,  and  over  it  a  cloud  bank  that  is  bombarded 
by  the  wind,  which  apparently  is  never  quite  able  to 
drive  it  off.  To  the  east  a  long  sandy  spit  reaches  out, 


332  Life  in  the  Open 

and  by  this  we  anchored  in  a  treacherous  sea,  the  tide 
rushing  up  and  down,  the  sea  running  in  and  around, 
and  the  wind  whistling  a  mournful  dirge  through  the 
rigging. 

The  landing  is  through  the  surf,  and  dangerous. 
Another  anchorage  is  at  Corral  Harbour,  several  miles 
above.  The  wind-gods  hold  San  Nicolas,  and  a  more 
uninviting  spot  it  would  be  difficult  to  find.  The  wind 
seemingly  never  ceases,  lifting  the  sand  into  the  air, 
whirling  it  along  like  wraiths,  filling  great  cafions, 
emptying  others,  and  every  day  changing  the  land- 
scape. I  crossed  a  plain  as  level  as  a  floor,  covered 
with  small  pebbles  that  at  times  the  wind  hurls  through 
the  air.  Despite  its  interesting  features,  San  Nicolas 
is  a  good  place  to  leave  behind.  In  1836,  we  are 
told,  the  last  Indians  were  taken  away ;  but  as  they 
were  leaving  a  squaw  swam  back  to  get  her  child, 
and  for  some  reason  was  left  and  abandoned.  In 
1856,  twenty  years  later,  George  Nidever  of  Santa 
Barbara  landed  there,  on  an  otter  hunt.  To  his  sur- 
prise he  found  huts  of  whalebone,  and  near  one  an  old 
woman,  dressed  in  a  garb  of  skins  and  feathers.  She 
presented  a  weird  appearance ;  her  language  was  unin- 
telligible. Nidever  took  her  to  Santa  Barbara,  where 
every  attempt  was  made  to  find  some  one  who  could 
talk  to  her,  but  without  success.  The  "lost  woman" 
died  three  months  after  her  rescue,  and  was  buried  by 
the  mission  fathers. 

In  striking  contrast  are  the  Santa  Barbara  Islands, 


PQ 


Cruisiug  Along  the  Channel  Islands  333 

about  one  hundred  miles  north  of  Santa  Catalina.  The 
winds  are  often  heavy  for  a  small  boat  here,  and  for 
perfect  comfort  and  safety  a  commodious  yacht  is 
needed.  Anacapa  lies  to  the  south,  a  long  rocky  spit, 
changing  at  every  point  of  view.  Over  a  small  channel 
lies  Santa  Cruz  Island,  nearly  as  large  as  Santa  Cata- 
lina, well  wooded,  hilly,  and  very  attractive,  in  the  inte- 
rior of  which  is  a  vineyard,  the  property,  as  is  the 
entire  island,  of  a  Swiss-Italian  wine  colony.  The 
interior  is  reached  up  a  narrow  but  beautiful  oak-lined 
canon — the  bed  of  a  stream  winding  upward  and  lead- 
ing into  the  little  valley  of  grapes.  The  harbours  at 
Santa  Cruz  are  more  or  less  open,  but  good  anchorage 
is  to  be  had,  and  strong  winds  for  sailing  are  met  with 
every  day. 

Santa  Rosa  lies  farther  out,  and  is  a  large  island 
used  as  a  sheep  and  cattle  ranch.  Portions  of  San 
Miguel,  which  lies  to  the  north,  it  may  be  said,  are  being 
blown  into  the  sea.  With  San  Nicolas  it  represents  the 
undoing  of  an  island,  and  the  view  of  white  sand  dunes 
flowing  over  mountains  is  an  interesting  phenomenon, 
and  the  island  is  worth  visiting  if  for  nothing  else  than 
to  witness  the  vagaries  of  the  winds  which  come  in  from 
the  west  and  toss  the  sand  aloft  where  clouds  and  wraiths 
go  whirling  through  the  air,  borne  upward  to  drop  like 
snow  upon  the  waters.  Three  hundred  years  ago  this  is- 
land was  discovered  by  Cabrillo,  the  Spanish  adventurer, 
who  died  and  was  buried  here.  At  that  time  the  island, 
it  is  said,  was  covered  with  verdure,  trees  and  brush, 


334  Life  in  the  Open 

as  are  parts  of  it  to-day ;  but  the  sand  in  the  course 
of  years  has  encroached  upon  it  and  reduced  the 
former  productive  portions  to  the  state  of  a  mere 
desert,  and  to-day  it  presents  a  most  desolate  appear- 
ance, and  those  who  land  here  have  to  wade  through 
the  deep  sand  that  is  ever  piling  up  and  is  destined 
to  completely  fill  the  harbour  or  reduce  it  to  a 
shallow. 

Some  time  ago  a  schooner  was  thrown  ashore  on  the 
beach,  and — to  show  the  remarkable  movementof  the 
sand — the  vessel  is  now  some  distance  inland  and  near- 
ly buried  out  of  sight  by  the  insidious  advance.  It  has 
covered  the  deck,  run  down  into  the  hold,  partly  filled  the 
craft,  so  that  from  a  distance  she  appears  to  be  riding  on 
a  sea  of  sand,  hard  pressed  and  desolate.  All  about, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  sand  is  coming  down  the  hills 
or  going  up,  covering  the  rocks  and  gullies,  sweeping 
into  caftons  and  forming  vast  slides  by  which  one  can 
slide  from  the  summit  of  a  hill  fairly  into  the  bay. 

As  a  picture  of  desolation  and  the  rapid  movement 
of  sand,  San  Miguel  has  no  equal.  It  works  like  snow, 
the  slightest  obstacle  being  an  excuse  for  piling  up  ;  and 
along  the  beach  are  seen  a  succession  of  sand  waves,  so 
high  in  some  instances  that  the  stroller  is  lost  to  sight 
as  he  moves  slowly  along.  There  is  no  better  place 
than  this  great  amphitheatre  of  sand  in  which  to  observe 
the  action  of  the  wind,  which  at  one  point  carries  it  up  a 
steep  slope,  and  not  far  away  it  is  pouring  down. 

The  advance  of  sand  is  often  subtle  and  unobserved ; 


Cruising  Along  the  Channel  Islands  335 

even  when  the  wind  is  low  it  is  moving,  and  by  lying 
down  on  the  dune  it  can  be  seen  coming  along  the  sur- 
face in  well-defined  rivers.  I  noticed  this  particularly 
on  the  outer  islands  of  the  Texan  coast,  where  the  sand 
rivers  in  numbers  of  instances  were  blowing  a  distance 
of  a  mile  or  more  from  the  gulf  across  the  flat  to  the 
inner  bay.  They  moved  at  about  the  same  rate  of  speed 
that  a  man  would  walk,  and  were  incessant,  and  had 
been  for  centuries ;  yet  the  island  retained  about  the 
same  shape,  the  loss  of  sand  being  equal  to  the  supply. 
The  prevailing  wind  at  San  Miguel  is  north-west,  and 
wing  and  wing  we  fell  away  before  it,  leaving  the  in- 
hospitable shores  to  make  the  harbour  of  Santa  Barbara 
with  its  splendid  beach  and  tiers  of  houses  rising  one 
above  the  other  to  the  mountains  of  Santa  Ynez. 
Yachting1  is  a  delightful  diversion  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, and  between  the  various  resorts  from  Santa 
Barbara  to  Coronado,  or  to  San  Diego,  and  the  attract- 
ive and  beautiful  islands  offshore,  the  yachtsman  has 
ample  choice. 

The  climatic  features  of  Southern  California  lend 
themselves  to  produce  very  favourable  conditions  for 
yachting.  During  the  entire  season,  from  May  until 
November,  there  will  be  no  storms,  squalls,  cyclones, 
thunder-storms,  rain,  or  any  of  the  conditions  that  hold 
on  the  Atlantic  Coast.  Every  day  there  is  a  west  wind 
that  can  be  counted  on,  sometimes  strong,  sometimes 

1  None  of  the  habitable  islands  of  Southern  California  are  open  to  the  public  ex- 
cept Santa  Catalina  ;  but  permission  to  land  can  doubtless  be  obtained  from 
owners  or  lessees. 


Life  in  the  Open 

light,  and  always  cool  and  delightful.  Paims  fringe  the 
shore  at  Santa  Barbara  and  are  seen  everywhere,  but  it 
is  never  hot  in  a  tropical  sense ;  there  is  rarely  uncom- 
fortable weather  in  port  or  out  to  sea. 

The  lee  of  the  large  islands  often  produces  a  dead 
calm,  and  for  this  reason  auxiliary  yachts  are  popular, 
being  able  to  go  into  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  coast. 
All  summer  there  is  a  delightful,  fresh,  stiff  breeze  ; 
heavier  in  the  Santa  Barbara  Channel,  lighter  off  Santa 
Catalina,  and  lighter  still  between  San  Diego  and  the 
Coronados.  As  summer  wanes  and  September  comes, 
the  wind  all  along  shore  dies  down,  diminishes  in  force, 
but  the  same  delightful  conditions  hold  far  into  the  fall. 
In  twenty  years'  familiarity  with  the  sea  here,  I  have 
never  run  into  a  day  fog  similar  to  that  which  drifts  in- 
shore off  the  New  England  coast.  The  fog  is  always 
high  during  the  day  along  the  Santa  Catalina  Channel. 
The  heavy  bank  can  be  seen  offshore  to  the  west,  often- 
times stationary,  holding  its  own  by  some  mystic  power 
against  a  ten-knot  breeze  ;  but  at  about  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  it  will  begin  to  move  in,  as  clouds,  from 
four  to  eight  hundred  feet  up,  coming  inshore  in  long 
lines,  creeping  up  the  river  beds,  as  the  Santa  Ana  and 
San  Gabriel,  following  along  the  Santa  Ana  and  Sierra 
Santa  Monica  ranges  and  filling  the  valleys  ;  but  out  at 
sea  it  is  clear.  The  high  fog  of  Southern  California 
nights  and  days  is  one  of  its  blessings. 

The  winter  season  is  equally  delightful  for  yachting. 
All  the  islands  are  then  rich  in  greens,  literal  wild-flower 


Fern  Canon,  Santa  Cruz  Island. 


Cruising  Along  the  Channel  Islands  337 

gardens  in  the  sea,  with  a  most  interesting  flora.  Pro- 
fessor T.  F.  Brandegee,  of  the  California  Academy  of 
Sciences,  says  :  "  It  has  been  suggested  that  these  islands 
are  the  remnants  of  a  western  Atlantis.  The  botanical 
arguments  in  favour  of  the  theory  are  drawn  principally 
from  the  flora  of  the  island  of  Santa  Cruz,  and  consist 
mainly  of  new  species."  The  list  of  plants,  according  to 
this  authority,  includes  about  five  hundred  and  twelve 
species,  twenty-six  of  which  have  not  been  found  on  the 
mainland,  and  only  twelve  of  the  latter  being  known  on 
the  islands  of  Lower  California. 

Among  the  interesting  plants  to  be  seen  here  are 
Catalina  dogwoods,  five-leaved  oaks,  the  rare  Mac- 
Donald's  oak,  and  a  yellow  Heteromeles.  At  Christmas 
time  this  island  is  ablaze  with  colour,  the  beautiful  red 
berries  of  the  holly,  or  Heteromeles,  being  seen  every- 
where. Over  the  slopes,  with  Adenostoma  in  vivid 
green,  is  the  Catalina  apple,  Crossosoma  californicum ; 
not  an  apple  at  all,  but  a  bush  about  fifteen  feet  high, 
which  looks  very  much  like  it. 

Here  blooms  the  Malva  rosa,  the  wild  lilac,  while 
the  glossy  and  delicate  green  of  the  wild  cherry  flashes 
in  many  cartons,  a  contrast  against  the  deeper  greens  of 
ironwood.  The  silver  tree,  Eriogonum,  is  seen  along 
the  slopes,  while  later  a  fringe  of  radiant  blossoms  in 
clusters  depends  along  the  edges  of  lofty  cliffs,  telling  of 
zephtosyne. 

The  island — and  I  take  it  as  a  type,  as  it  is  the  only 
one  available  to  the  public  by  daily  boats — seems  filled 


338  Life  in  the  Open 

with  rivers  of  verdure  flowing  in  all  directions,  and  in 
winter  the  vale  of  Avalon  becomes  a  charming  picture 
with  its  setting  of  green  hills  which  might  well  de- 
light the  eye  of  artist  or  poet.  In  January,  February, 
and  March,  wild  flowers  follow  in  rapid  succession  over 
the  hills  and  dales,  and  the  days  are  like  the  cool 
days  of  the  late  eastern  fall.  Perhaps  the  most  remark- 
able feature  is  the  dryness  of  this  island,  twenty  miles 
out  at  sea.  The  relative  humidity  for  the  year  is  67° ; 
that  of  Asheville,  N.  C.,  is  72°  ;  Jacksonville,  70° ;  Phila- 
delphia, 80°.  The  average  heat  for  July  at  Avalon  is 
65°.  In  August,  1892,  a  typical  year,  the  highest  mean 
temperature  at  six  in  the  morning  was  72°,  the  lowest 
68° ;  the  highest  at  noon  78°,  the  lowest  69°.  The  high- 
est at  six  in  the  evening  was  74°,  the  lowest  68° ;  the 
lowest  ocean  temperature  was  69°  at  six  in  the  morning, 
the  highest  76°  at  noon.  Frost  is  practically  unknown 
at  Avalon.  The  comparative  mean  temperature  for 
the  six  cold  months  is  58°  ;  the  average  for  the  same 
period  at  Nice  in  southern  France  is  48°,  or  10°  cold- 
er, yet  Nice  is  the  most  famous  health  resort  along  the 
Riviera.  The  average  temperature  for  January  at  this 
island  is  54°,  making  the  difference  between  mid-winter 
and  mid-summer  1 1°  ;  a  most  remarkable  feature,  which 
I  wish  to  emphasise,  as  it  shows  that  the  vale  of  Avalon 
has  an  almost  perfect  climate,  of  interest  to  those  who  de- 
sire such  conditions  and  propose  cruising  along  the  Pacific 
Coast.  For  these  figures  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  H.  Elms 
of  Avalon,  who  kept  the  records  for  six  or  seven  years. 


Cruising  Along  the  Channel  Islands  339 

The  resorts  of  the  world  famous  for  "perfect 
climate"  are  those  in  France  and  Italy  along  the 
Riviera,  visited  by  thousands  of  Americans  who  travel 
across  seas  and  continents  in  search  of  a  mild  climate, 
not  realising  that  in  three  and  one  half  or  four  days  they 
can  reach  from  New  York  an  American  Riviera,  the 
coast  line  of  Southern  California,  far  surpassing  any 
locality  in  Europe  in  its  climatic  perfections.  To  em- 
phasise this  the  following  table  may  be  referred  to — 
showing  the  difference  between  the  monthly  mean 
temperature  of  the  resorts  of  the  European  Riviera 
and  Southen  California,  January  and  July: 

Rome,  Italy 25°  Nice,  France 30° 

Naples,     "      30°  Cairo,  Egypt 27° 

Jacksonville,  Fla 28°  Florence,  Italy 33° 

Auckland,  N.  Z 19°  Avalon,  Cal 11° 

Coronado,  Cal 12°  Santa  Barbara,  Cal. .  . .  13° 

No  records  are  available  as  to  the  islands  of  San 
Clemente,  Santa  Cruz,  and  Santa  Rosa,  but  doubtless 
very  similar  conditions  hold,  as  the  climate  from  Santa 
Barbara  to  Coronado,  including  the  near-shore  islands, 
is  as  near  perfect  as  can  be  found,  being  invariably 
milder  than  the  interior. 

In  cruising  among  the  channel  islands  in  winter,  the 
yachtsman  will  occasionally  experience  north-westers 
and  south-easters,  but  the  rule  is  a  succession  of  clear 
and  beautiful  days.  Santa  Catalina  Island  has  a  good 
harbour  in  Avalon  except  when  a  south-easter  blows ; 


340  Life  in  the  Open 

then  the  land-locked  Catalina  Harbour  affords  perfect 
anchorage.  The  new  breakwater  at  San  Pedro  has 
made  a  harbour  for  the  navies  of  the  world,  while  the 
inner  harbour  is  where  yachts  winter.  Terminal  Island 
has  no  harbour,  relying  on  the  protection  afforded  by 
the  San  Pedro  breakwater ;  but  here  in  summer  many 
races  are  held.  Off  Coronado  is  the  course  of  the 
Corinthian  and  the  San  Diego  Yacht  Clubs,  the  inner 
harbour  being  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world,  with  an 
ideal  climate  winter  and  summer.  Here  are  held  the 
yearly  contests  for  the  Lipton  Cup,  a  splendid  trophy 
presented  to  the  former  club  by 'Sir  Thomas  Lipton. 
The  race  is  often  entered  by  yachts  from  the  north- 
ern clubs.  Nowhere  in  America  are  the  conditions  so 
nearly  perfect  for  this  sport  as  along  the  coast  of  South. 
ern  California,  especially  among  the  channel  islands, 
where  the  long,  cool  summer  days  imperceptibly  melt 
into  winter  that  is  still  summer  under  another  name. 


The 


Chapter  XXIV 

The  Still  Angler 


ONE  would  look  a  long  way  along  the  New 
England  coast,  or  possibly  anywhere  else,  to 
find  a  municipality  that  would  spend  thou- 
sands of  dollars  in  extending  one  or  more  splendid  piers 
out  into  the  sea  for  the  sole  benefit  of  anglers  who  might 
come  that  way ;  yet  nearly  every  Southern  California 
town  on  the  sea-shore  has  such  a  pier,  or  several ;  not 
makeshifts,  but  fine  affairs,  leading  out  over  and  be- 
yond the  breakers,  and  in  the  main  for  the  fisherman, 
the  still  angler,  the  philosopher  of  content,  who  comes 
from  the  interior  and  the  East  and  fishes  from  the  string- 
piece  to  his  heart's  desire. 

These  begin  at  Santa  Monica,  and  reach  to  San 
Diego,  where  a  long  pier  reaches  out  from  Coronado. 
Possibly  the  culmination  is  found  at  Long  Beach,  where 
the  pier  is  a  double-decked  affair,  with  a  ballroom,  con- 
cert hall,  and  a  town,  so  far  as  shops  are  concerned,  all 
out  at  sea. 

At  Venice  the  pier  is  equally  remarkable,  having  a 

343 


344  Life  in  the  Open 

vast  hall,  music  room,  or  dancing  pavilion  far  out  over 
the  water,  not  to  speak  of  a  hotel  in  the  form  of  an 
ancient  galleon.  Here  is  an  imitation  of  Venice,  Italy, 
and  one  may  enjoy  the  delights  ot  the  gondola,  as  well 
as  go  a-fishing.  At  Ocean  Park  and  other  places  these 
piers  are  seen,  all  patronised  by  anglers,  who  seem  to 
possess  all  the  qualifications  of  Walton,  patience,  so- 
briety, and  a  peaceful  mind.  The  game  is  usually 
though  not  always  small :  the  surf-fish  of  the  coast, 
smelt,  rock-bass,  and  occasionally  halibut,  yellowtail 
and  white  and  black  sea-bass.  But  the  smallness  of 
the  game  does  not  discourage  your  real  fisherman  ;  it 
is  not  all  in  the  game,  but  the  art  of  fishing,  the 
anticipation. 

The  pier  is  high  above  the  water,  to  clear  the  long 
rollers  that  at  times  come  piling  in  ;  hence  the  majority 
of  the  anglers  use  long  stiff  bamboo  rods  and  big  reels 
by  which  the  fish  can  be  lifted,  and  the  renting  of  rods 
and  the  selling  of  bait  is  a  remunerative  business  along- 
shore. One  may  see  the  sides  of  these  long  piers 
crowded  day  after  day  by  anglers — men,  women,  and 
children ;  a  remarkable  demonstration  of  the  universal 
fascination  which  angling  has  for  mankind.  There  is 
nothing  quite  like  it,  except  along  the  Thames,  where 
at  times  hundreds  of  men  may  be  seen  patiently  and 
philosophically  holding  a  rod  for  game  of  the  smallest 
size.  Doubtless  the  anglers  hope  to  land  a  five-  or  six- 
pounder,  and  without  hope  and  patience  there  would  be 
no  anglers.  But  the  secret  is  that  these  fine  piers  with 


Beach  Fishing  for  Leaping  Sharks,  Catalina  Harbour. 


The  Still  Angler  345 

their  bands,  dancing  halls,  lectures,  organs,  and  ship 
hotels,  afford  the  people  a  voyage  at  sea,  its  delights 
and  pleasures,  without  any  disadvantages.  The  green 
sea  comes  piling  in  in  tidal  measure,  the  surf  high,  a  de- 
lightful spectacle  as  it  breaks,  affording  the  angler  the 
perspective,  the  spume  and  dashing  spray,  all  free  as  air, 
and  the  angling  thrown  in.  I  do  not  know  who  invented 
the  angling  pier,  but  he  was  a  wise  man  in  his  day — a 
public  benefactor. 

While  the  majority  of  the  game  is  small  from  the 
pier,  there  are  fishing  launches  near  at  hand,  and  you 
may  go  outside  and  troll  for  barracuda,  bonito,  or  yellow- 
tail  ;  or  you  may  anchor  in  deep  water  and  fish  for  the 
big  black  sea-bass.  These  boats  and  others  take  you  to 
the  great  breakwater  of  San  Pedro,  a  harbour  which  cost 
five  million  dollars,  and  to  Point  Firman  and  Portuguese 
Bend,  the  home  of  the  mainland  abalone  fisheries.  At 
the  former  point  can  be  seen  at  low  tide  during  or  after 
a  storm  some  of  the  most  remarkable  waves  on  this  or 
any  coast,  well  worthy  a  visit  even  if  a  winter  gale  is 
blowing.  Off  the  point  a  rock  rises  out  of  the  sea  from 
a  great  stratified  platform ;  as  the  sea  comes  piling  in 
it  strikes  the  rock,  and  is  sent  whirling,  it  is  said,  three 
hundred  feet  into  the  air,  the  dome  of  water  assuming 
many  beautiful  shapes  as  it  rises  and  falls,  at  its  climax 
or  maximum  height  resembling  a  splendid  fountain,  or 
some  terrible  explosion  which  has  forced  tons  of  water 
into  the  air  in  the  shape  of  silvery  pompons. 

At    night,     when     the    darkness    is    intense,     this 


346  Life  in  the  Open 

marvellous  flocculent  mass  becomes  a  pillar  or  fountain 
of  fire,  due  to  the  remarkable  phosphorescence  of  the 
water,  which  at  times  has  assumed  so  fiery  a  hue  that  thou- 
sands were  attracted  from  the  interior  towns  and  cities. 

The  still  angler  occasionally  varies  his  sport  by 
going  out  upon  the  beach,  and  with  a  long  rod  and 
heavy  sinker  casting  for  surf-fish  or  other  game.  You 
may  see  the  long  stretch  of  sands  dotted  with  these 
monuments  of  patience,  these  advocates  of  philosophical 
reflection  and  the  peaceful  arts,  who  face  the  rich  strong 
wind  and  salty  spume,  and  are  happy  if  they  do  not  get 
a  gudgeon. 

Along  the  laguna  shores  I  have  found  good  beach 
fishing  for  large  rock-bass,  standing  in  the  water  and 
with  a  fairly  stiff  rod  casting  fifty  or  sixty  feet  from  the 
sands.  I  have  caught  sheepshead  from  the  rocks,  yel- 
low-tails from  Avalon  Beach,  in  the  old  days,  and  have 
seen  the  little  beach  lined  with  anglers,  all  of  whom  ulti- 
mately became  involved  in  unutterable  confusion  as  the 
big  and  gamy  fish  crossed  the  lines  and  amused  them- 
selves at  the  expense  of  the  anglers.  At  certain 
beaches  at  Santa  Catalina  there  is  fair  leaping-shark 
fishing,  particularly  in  July  and  August,  at  Catalina 
Harbour.  The  heavy  bait  is  carried  out  by  the  gaffer, 
who  stands  by  on  the  beach  and  gaffs  the  game  as  it  is 
reeled  in.  This  is  the  luxury  of  angling.  You  do  not 
leave  the  dry  sand — that  is  not  necessary,  your  gaffer 
does  that — as  there  is  no  surf,  the  harbour  being  as 
smooth  as  a  lake.  A  strike  comes,  and  as  you  hook 


I 


The  Still  Angler  347 

the  game  it  leaps  two  or  three  feet  into  the  air  and 
often  repeats  it ;  a  sixty-pound  shark  (my  own  record), 
striped  gray  and  black,  like  a  tiger.  He  carries  you  up 
and  down  the  sands,  and  affords  excellent  sport  for 
those  who  like  the  more  robust  piscatorial  indulgences. 
You  may  see  the  still  angler,  on  the  inner  bay,  sit- 
ting on  the  sands  at  Alamitos,  while  over  on  the  sand- 
dunes  is  his  family  listening  to  the  music  of  the  sea ;  or 
he  is  stationed  at  intervals  on  the  outer  beach  down  in 
the  direction  of  Newport,  his  rods  thrust  in  the  sands 
and  tagged  with  flags.  Again  you  find  him  at  the 
great  railroad  pier  at  Port  Los  Angeles,  or  at  Re- 
dondo,  where  the  deep  sea  cuts  in,  at  times  bringing 
large  fishes. 


Chapter  XXV 

The  Tribe  of  Seriola 

THE  angler  who  has  fished  in  Florida  from  Palm 
Beach  to  the  Gulf  has  an  especial  pride  in 
his  amber-jacks — one  of  the  gamiest  fishes  of 
the  Gulf  Stream,  running  up  to  eighty  or  more  pounds, 
clad  in  splendid  vestments  of  colour,  silver,  gold,  or  am- 
ber ;  a  type  of  matchless  cunning  and  strength.  On 
coming  to  the  Pacific  slope,  or  to  Southern  California, 
he  finds  a  cousin  of  this  fish ;  not  so  thick-set,  longer 
and  a  little  more  slender,  but  a  near  kinsman  of  the 
royal  family,  a  Seriola,  known  here  as  the  amber-fish, 
and  by  many  other  titles  best  known,  perhaps,  as  yel- 
lowtail.  It  ranges  from  ten  or  fifteen  pounds  up  to 
thirty  or  forty,  and  doubtless  reaches  one  hundred 
pounds  in  its  old  age  and  best  condition. 

The  amber-fish — call  him  what  you  will — comes  from 
some  mysterious  realm  offshore  in  March  or  April,  in- 
creasing in  numbers,  as  time  goes  on,  until  June,  when 
he  often  throngs  the  Santa  Catalina  Channel  and 
abounds  in  such  numbers  that  the  great  schools  fairly 

351 


352  Life  in  the  Open 

tint  the  water  with  gold.  They  soon  break  up  into 
twos  and  threes,  or  small  schools,  and  can  be  caught, 
trolling  or  still  fishing  as  the  case  may  be  ;  and  the  ease 
with  which  they  are  hooked  gives  the  splendid  creature 
the  place  of  the  bluefish  of  the  Atlantic. 

You  may  see  the  angler  at  Avalon  sitting  on  post 
or  string-piece  of  the  dock  angling  for  yellowtails  and 
rock-bass — men,  women,  and  children, — while  out  in  the 
bay  is  a  large  fleet  of  rowboats,  angling  for  this  gamy 
roustabout  that  has  been  known  to  jerk  a  boy  from 
the  pier. 

They  tell  a  story  at  Avalon  to  the  tenderfoot,  which 
I  will  not  vouch  for,  to  the  effect  that  one  morning 
service  was  being  held  in  a  tent  chapel,  this  being  be- 
fore the  days  of  churches,  when  a  small  boy  came  in, 
whispered  something  in  the  ear  of  a  man,  who  immedi- 
ately got  up  and  went  out.  Presently  another  followed, 
others  joined  him,  and  when  two  thirds  of  the  congre- 
gation had  left,  the  Presiding  Elder,  unable  to  resist  any 
longer,  so  the  story  goes,  cried  out,  "  Hold  on,  brethren, 
let 's  start  fair,"  and  hastened  down  the  aisle,  and  was 
soon  seen  on  the  beach  where  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  had  gathered  to  see  the  greatest  run  of  yel- 
lowtails ever  witnessed  at  the  island.  They  filled  the 
waters  of  the  little  bay,  a  ravenous  throng  which  bit  at 
anything,  and  the  beach  was  soon  lined  with  anglers, 
who  were  involved  in  confusion  worse  confounded. 
No  one  who  has  not  seen  a  similar  sight  or  a  jack-beat 
in  Florida  can  form  any  conception  of  it,  or  the  com- 


Taking  the  Yellowtail. 

(i)   The  strike.       (2)   How  the  rod  appeared  after  thirty  minutes.      (3)  Gaffing.        (4)    "A 

thirty-five  pounder." 


The  Tribe  of  Seriola  353 

plete  demoralisation  that  fills  the  soul  of  the  still 
angler,  who,  from  a  simple  philosopher  of  the  string- 
piece,  becomes  a  wild  man ;  and  to  see  these  anglers  stand- 
ing on  the  sands,  the  line  of  one  entangled  with  that  of  an- 
other while  the  fish  are  biting,  is  to  witness  unutterable 
anguish — no  contingency  so  tries  the  soul  of  man — the 
temptation  of  Saint  Anthony  was  a  bagatelle  to  that 
which  dangles  red  before  these  martyrs;  who  invari- 
ably fall  from  grace,  and  swear  by  Jove  and  all  the 
gods  and  prophets. 

It  is  the  fish  of  the  people,  and  one  of  the  sights  in 
summer  alongshore  is  to  see  the  yellowtail  fleet  in 
August  drifting  or  anchored  at  Avalon  Bay.  There 
are  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  boats,  ranging  from  row- 
boats  to  launches,  with  men,  women,  and  children 
angling  for  a  fish  that  averages  twenty-five  pounds.  No 
such  rod-fishing  can  be  seen  anywhere  in  the  world,  so 
far  as  known,  and — this  is  said  advisedly, — this  one 
fish  alone  would  make  the  angling  reputation  of  South- 
ern California.  The  big  island  is  a  wind-break,  giving 
water  often  as  smooth  as  glass  and  of  an  ineffable 
blue.  Glancing  down  into  it  you  see  a  wealth  of 
streamers,  long  beams  of  light  pulsating,  throbbing, 
extending  here  and  there  and  bringing  out  into  strong 
relief  a  variety  of  marvellous  shapes,  crystals,  the  very 
ghosts  of  animal  life,  yet  living,  pulsating  animals.  The 
most  ardent  angler  cannot  fail  to  notice  these  fairy 
forms,  as  some  are  fishing  in  boats  with  glass  bottoms 
through  which  the  smallest  creatures  are  seen  with 


354  Life  in  the  Open 

perfect  distinctness ;  and  those  who  know,  see  that  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  animal  life  is  similar  to  that  of  Naples 
and  the  Mediterranean. 

As  the  anglers  sit  and  watch  the  drift  in  this  float- 
ing throng  some  one  raises  a  shout,  and  from  the 
throats  of  the  people  in  the  yellowtail  city  comes  a 
roar ;  shattering  all  the  ethics  of  angling,  as  the  man 
who  has  hooked  a  fish  is  encouraged  in  loud  and  joy- 
ous tones  by  every  one  else ;  there  is  no  trace  of  envy 
here,  and  voices  shout,  "Good  boy!"  "Give  it  to 
him  ! "  "  Go  in  and  win  !  "  and  other  consoling  phrases 
well  known  to  anglers. 

The  victim  takes  it  pleasantly  as  he  is  in  the  float- 
ing village  by  choice,  and  there  are  sixty  miles  of  shore 
where  he  can  fish  alone  ;  so  he  plays  his  game  and  is  not 
"  rattled  "  by  the  roars  of  advice. 

Glance  at  this  game  and  its  play.  The  lucky  angler 
has  a  light  rod  weighing  not  over  ten  ounces,  a  line 
known  to  the  trade  as  a  number  nine.  He  is  in  one 
hundred  feet  of  water  and  has  hooked  a  yellowtail 
weighing  at  least  seventeen  pounds.  Will  he  land  it  ? 
That  is  the  question.  If  cheering  and  vociferous  en- 
couragement be  an  aid,  he  will.  The  fish  has  taken 
one  hundred  feet  at  the  start ;  the  rod  is  bent  into  a 
suggestive  curve,  and  the  reel  is  making  music  that 
is  heard  high  above  the  noise.  He  has  tossed  off  his 
painter,  and  the  fish  is  towing  the  light  skiff  out  into 
the  channel,  making  for  deeper  water.  Every  now 
and  then  the  reel  sounds  as  the  yellowtail  makes  a 


The  Tribe  of  Seriola  355 

rush,  and  you  see  that  its  peculiarity  of  playing  is  to 
make  a  series  of  mad  rushes  that  are  irresistible.  Zee, 
zee,  zeee  /  sounds  the  reel,  again  and  again  ;  the  crowd, 
catching  the  melody,  takes  it  up,  and  the  roar  of  sounds 
drifts  over  the  waters  into  the  caflon,  and  gives  the 
angler  who  cannot  go  a-fishing  a  sharp  and  poignant 


•s- 


The  fish  is  down  and  out  three  hundred  feet, 
hence,  must  be  lifted  ;  and  we  see  the  angler  lower  his 
rod,  reeling  quickly,  "  pumping,"  in  this  way  gaining  on 
the  fish,  that  occasionally  breaks  away  to  the  accom- 
panying music  of  the  reel,  then  comes  slowly  in,  all  the 
time  bearing  off  with  a  force  and  vivacity  that  tests 
every  fibre  of  rod  or  line,  and  angler's  muscle.  If  you 
were  near  enough,  you  would  see  deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
azure  channel  a  blaze  of  silver,  with  flashes  of  gold. 
The  yellowtail  is  a  hundred  feet  down  at  the  end  of 
thirty  minutes,  and  the  skiff  one  hundred  yards  from 
the  fleet,  where,  perhaps,  other  anglers  are  in  the  toils. 
The  fish  is  upon  its  side,  bearing  off  gallantly,  making 
the  fight  of  its  life. 

As  it  conies  in,  it  rushes  around  in  a  big  circle,  then 
plunges  down,  zee,  zee,  zee,  zee  !  until  the  tired  angler 
loses  nearly  all  the  line  he  has  gained,  and  it  is  such  a 
thread,  this  nine-strand  affair,  that  great  care  must  be 
taken,  as  the  slightest  mistake,  the  merest  over-pressure 
of  the  thumb  and  it  is  gone,  and  the  yellowtail  sails 
away.  But  your  angler  is  a  cautious  fellow;  he  has  fished 
before ;  he  watches  every  move,  and  suddenly  you  see 


356  Life  in  the  Open 

him  reach  for  his  gaff — and,  presto  !  he  lifts  a  great 
silvery  creature  up  out  of  the  blue  sea,  holds  it  a  mo- 
ment and  laughingly  nods  at  the  floating-village  people, 
who  send  across  the  water  a  volley  of  congratulations. 

And  the  fish  ?  A  noble  fellow — silver  belly  newly 
polished  in  the  ocean  mint,  clear  as  silver  can  be,  tail 
and  fins  gold  of  California,  and  along  the  side  a  stripe 
of  the  same.  Its  back  is  green  in  the  water,  but  now  is 
a  blue  deeper  than  that  of  the  sea  ;  the  blue  you  see  in 
some  minerals,  in  the  heart  of  an  opal  and  in  the  blue 
heart  of  labradorite.  It  is  nearly  four  feet  long,  and 
weighs  thirty-two  pounds,  yet  nothing  is  thought  of  it. 
The  angler  slips  back  into  his  place  and  shouts  con- 
gratulations to  some  other  fisherman,  as  in  the  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  of  play  perhaps  a  dozen  such  fishes 
have  been  caught  or  brought  to  the  gaff. 

The  fishing-ground  is  a  delight  in  itself.  The  air  is 
cool,  never  sultry,  and  if  one  wishes  wind,  why,  it  is 
around  the  turn  at  Seal  Rocks  where  the  fresh  inshore 
breeze,  called  by  the  desert,  is  driving  in  the  scud  and 
spume  high  on  rock  and  sand. 

So  much  for  still  fishing  for  the  yellowtail ;  and  if  he 
is  not  in  a  responsive  mood  the  boats  move  slowly 
along  the  rocky  coast  about  fifty  feet  from  shore  in 
water  as  smooth  as  any  inland  lake  (though  you  are 
twenty  miles  out  in  the  Pacific),  and  you  troll  with 
about  sixty  feet  of  line  out,  and  perhaps  a  heavier  rod, 
say  sixteen  ounces.  The  bait  is  a  four-inch  sardine,  or 
a  spoon,  and  sooner  or  later  it  is  taken  and  the  experi- 


The  Tribe  of  Seriola  357 

ence  is  repeated.  There  is  hardly  any  play  that  quite 
comes  up  to  that  made  by  this  fish.  Its  fierceness,  its 
sudden  rushes,  its  evident  strength,  all  are  factors  that 
surprise  old  salmon  fishermen  and  dumbfound  the  ten- 
derfoot in  these  summer  seas.  Santa  Catalina  is  the 
home  of  the  yellowtail,  so  far  as  the  rod  angler  is 
concerned,  as  here  the  equipment  of  boats  is  perfect, 
the  water  smooth,  and  the  fish  found  in  large  numbers  ; 
the  rocky  cliffs,  the  long  ideal  stormless  summer  days 
appealing  to  anglers,  some  of  whom  have  a  weakness 
for  creature  comforts  even  when  fishing. 

The  yellowtail  is  found  as  far  north  as  Monterey, 
and  where  deep  water  sets  inshore,  as  at  Redondo  and 
Portuguese  Bend ;  it  is  caught,  also  in  mid-channel. 
Schools  may  be  found  all  along  the  coast  where  they 
are  taken  by  the  professional  fisherman  with  his  hand- 
lines  and  bone-gigs.  But  the  ideal  rod-fishing  is  found 
in  the  lee  of  the  channel  islands,  from  San  Diego  and 
Coronado  to  Santa  Barbara,  where  still  waters  and  ideal 
conditions  make  the  sport  unique  in  the  annals  of 
rod-fishing  for  big  game. 

Yellowtail  fishing  at  the  islands  continues  all  sum- 
mer and  up  to  December,  and  I  have  taken  this  fish  at 
Avalon  from  the  pier  nearly  every  month  in  the  year ; 
but  officially  Seriola  is  on  leave,  December,  January, 
and  February,  and  is  then  only  caught  on  hand-lines 
six  hundred  feet  down  in  the  San  Clemente  Channel,  or 
off  the  great  banks  of  Tanner  and  Cortez  some  miles  to 
the  south-west,  or  down  the  coast  at  Ensenada. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

The  Climate  of  Southern  California 

INFORMATION  regarding  the  climate  of  a  locality 
is  essential  to  the  sportsman  or  traveller. 
Aside  from  its  fame  as  a  sportsman's  paradise 
Southern  California  has  become  noted  as  a  health  resort; 
yet  its  peculiar  climatic  conditions  are  but  little  under- 
stood, as  instance  the  party  of  otherwise  intelligent  people 
who,  proposing  to  spend  the  winter  in  Southern  Califor- 
nia, packed  away  their  winter  clothing  in  New  York  and 
came  to  Los  Angeles  in  a  private  car,  garbed  in  muslins 
and  duck  and  with  wardrobes  light  enough  for  Samoa. 
I  was  first  impressed  strongly  in  favor  of  Southern 
California  by  the  remarks  of  a  Southern  Californian  of 
wealth,  who  had  no  real  estate  to  dispose  of.  He  told 
me  that,  obliged  to  seek  a  mild  climate  for  a  permanent 
residence,  he  began  a  tour  of  the  world,  making  an  ex- 
tended, and,  as  he  considered,  an  exhaustive  series  of  re- 
searches, living  in  all  the  famous  health  resorts  known, 
as  the  Azores,  Madeira,  the  south  of  Italy,  France,  Spain, 
and  Cairo,  Florida,  Colorado,  and  other  States. 

361 


362  Life  in  the  Open 

In  the  course  of  time  he  reached  Southern  California, 
and  after  several  years'  trial  selected  the  San  Gabriel 
Valley  as  having  the  most  perfect  climate  he  could  find 
in  a  civilised  country  for  continuous  residence.  My  own 
home  for  twenty  years  has  been  but  five  miles  distant 
from  the  ranch  of  this  well-known  and  enterprising  citi- 
zen, and,  while  I  have  not  made  extensive  investigations 
abroad,  I  have  in  America,  and  am  confident  that  his 
judgment  is  unbiased  and  his  assumptions  correct  and 
logical. 

The  perfect  climate,  in  all  probability,  does  not  ex- 
ist, but  I  believe  that  parts  of  Southern  California  come 
nearer  to  it  than  any  locality  in  the  civilised  world.  A 
locality  cannot  be  adequately  judged  by  a  single  year, 
as  some  seasons  are  wet,  and  some  are  dry ;  the  real 
test  is  by  the  decade,  or  better  by  two.  Orange  trees 
thirty  years  old  bloom  in  my  garden,  giving  the  answer 
to  the  query  as  to  the  lack  of  extreme  cold  in  that  time. 

The  variety  of  climates  in  Southern  California,  their 
remarkable  range,  are  the  features  which  impress  the 
new-comer,  and  are  well  illustrated  in  the  following  inci- 
dent: Some  years  ago,  I  published  anonymously  in  a 
New  York  journal,  the  Evening  Post,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
a  statement  to  the  effect  that  the  residents  of  Pasadena 
could  pick  oranges,  bathe  in  the  ocean  with  a  temper- 
ature not  much  cooler  than  that  of  Newport  in  summer, 
and  enjoy  sleighing  and  snow-shoeing,  all  in  one  day. 
This  extraordinary  statement — from  the  Eastern  stand- 
point— was  regarded  a  joke  by  the  press,  and  quoted  as 


Climate  of  Souhtern  California      363 

a  fair  sample  of  the  "  California  big  story,"  and  consid- 
ered a  figment  of  the  imagination  pure  and  simple. 

The  Pasadena  Board  of  Trade  several  years  later 
took  the  matter  up  and  decided  to  show  the  world  that 
it  was  not  only  a  very  simple  thing  to  accomplish,  but 
the  tourist,  sportsman  or  invalid  could  find  in  one  day 
any  altitude  and  climate  from  sea.  level  to  six  thousand 
or  even  ten  thousand  feet ;  semitropic  summer,  and  all 
the  grades  of  climate  and  climatic  variants  up  to  snow- 
banks, and  winter,  drear  and  desolate. 

The  extreme  altitude  mentioned  was  on  San  Antonio 
and  San  Jacinto  Mountains,  snow-covered  in  winter,  and 
reached  from  Los  Angeles  or  Pasadena  in  a  few  hours; 
but  the  Board  of  Trade  devoted  itself  to  Pasadena. 
They  appointed  a  committee  of  well-known  citizens, 
and,  with  a  photographer  to  illustrate  their  experiences, 
started  one  day  in  February,  or  mid-winter,  to  prove 
the  story.  The  town  or  city  of  Pasadena  lies  at  the 
base  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  which  here  rises  abruptly  to- 
an  altitude  of  six  thousand  feet,  and  at  this  time  the 
peaks  were  white  with  snow  down  to  the  four  thousand- 
foot  level. 

Extending  up  this  mountain  range  in  Rubio  Cafton 
was  a  cable  road,  the  Mount  Lowe  Railroad,  that  in  a 
few  moments  carried  the  passengers  from  the  base  to 
the  thirty-five-hundred-foot  point,  and  while  the  com- 
mittee was  not  dependent  upon  this  mode  of  trans- 
portation, there  being  horse  trails,  they  proposed  to 
utilise  it,  and  laid  out  an  itinerary  which  covered  every 


364  Life  in  the  Open 

point  in  the  discussion.  The  accompanying  illustrations 
tell  the  story.  The  committee  at  10  A.  M.  met  in  the 
orange  grove  of  the  late  Andrew  McNally  of  Chicago, 
where  they  ate  oranges,  then  picked  roses,  and  idled  in 
a  wealth  of  flowers  that  made  up  the  garden.  At  1 1 
we  find  them  on  the  mountain  railroad  at  the  foot  of 
the  incline.  At  I2M.  they  had  entered  the  snow  level, 
thirty-fi ve  hundred  feet  up,  soon  reaching  Alpine  Tav- 
ern amid  a  scene  that  epitomised  winter. 

Hundreds  of  square  miles  of  mountains  stretched 
away  white  with  snow,  and  on  distant  peaks  the  wind 
was  blowing  snow  banners  into  the  air.  Here  a  sleigh 
met  the  party,  and  they  were  carried  still  higher  up  the 
mountain,  amid  huge  snow-banks  where  with  snow-shoes 
they  walked  about  and  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  snow- 
balling. At  1.30  P.  M.  they  were  again  at  the  NcNally 
trout  pool,  in  the  land  of  summer,  and  at  3.30  P.M.  we 
might  have  seen  them,  as  did  the  photographer,  bathing 
in  the  waters  of  the  Pacific  at  Santa  Monica,  from  which 
they  steamed  back  to  the  orange  groves  of  Pasadena, 
where  late  in  the  afternoon  they  assembled  in  the  orange 
grove  of  one  of  the  party  and  read  the  congratulatory 
telegrams  of  their  feat.  In  a  few  hours  they  had  passed 
through  various  climates,  from  semitropic  summer  and 
ripening  oranges,  to  the  heart  of  winter,  and  altitudes 
from  the  sea  level  to  over  a  mile  above  it,  all  attainable 
in  half  a  day  if  desired,  and  in  the  most  comfortable, 
indeed  luxurious,  fashion. 

Few  localities   have   so   many   singular   conditions 


Climate  of  Southern  California      365 

liable  to  affect  the  climate  as  Southern  California.  It 
is  an  oasis  of  limited  extent  encompassed  by  deserts 
which  have  few  equals  for  heat  on  the  habitable  globe. 
There  are  mountains  of  great  height,  abysmal  sinks  two 
hundred  and  eighty-two  feet  below  the  level  of  the  sea  ; 
indeed  the  country  is  a  maze  of  mountains,  the  people 
living  in  the  valleys  or  along  the  seashore  enjoying 
what  is,  in  all  probability,  the  most  perfect  climate 
known. 

The  impression  has  gone  abroad  that  Southern  Cal- 
ifornia is  a  winter  resort,  with  a  burning  summer,  when 
in  point  of  fact  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  from  Santa  Bar- 
bara to  San  Diego,  and  often  miles  inland,  are  remark- 
ably cool  in  summer ;  the  heat  conditions  which  hold  on 
the  North  Atlantic  coast  being  unknown.  There  are 
warm,  often  intensely  hot,  days  in  the  interior  towns  and 
valleys  in  August  and  September,  but  the  nights  are 
almost  always  cool,  and  one  of  the  objections  some  peo- 
ple have  to  Southern  California  is  that  one  cannot  dress 
in  light  clothing  and  sit  out  of  doors  every  evening,  as 
they  are,  as  a  rule,  too  cool.  As  an  illustration  of  San 
Gabriel  Valley  climate,  I  am  writing  these  lines  on 
August  twenty-first  in  Pasadena,  twenty-eight  miles  from 
the  ocean,  at  noon.  My  room  faces  the  north,  or  the 
garden,  and  the  windows  and  doors  are  open.  It  is  a 
warm  day  in  Pasadena,  but  my  room  thermometer  shows 
70°,  and  this  has  been  the  average  for  me  all  summer 
with  few  exceptions ;  later  it  becomes  warmer  for  a  few 
days,  then  cools  off  again  ;  all  of  which  leads  me  up  to 


366  Life  in  the  Open 

the  statement  that  personally,  after  a  trial  of  twenty 
years,  I  prefer  the  summers  of  Southern  California  to 
the  winters,  and  after  residing  in  almost  every  section  of 
the  country  I  believe  Southern  California  possesses  a 
more  than  remarkable  climate,  winter  and  summer,  if 
judged  by  my  stadnard, — the  experience  of  two  decades. 

I  have  seen  winters  when  it  rained  too  much,  I  have 
seen  five  or  six  years  when  it  did  not  rain  enough.  I 
have  seen  long  hot  summers  when  the  inland  towns 
were  extremely  uncomfortable,  but  judging  the  country 
by  the  rule  of  general  average,  by  five  years,  a  decade, 
or  two  decades,  it  stands  in  my  estimation  without  peer, 
as  the  nearest  to  the  fabled  perfect  all  around  climate. 

Southern  California  has  all  the  advantages  of  the 
Riviera  without  any  of  its  drawbacks,  as  the  hot  winds 
from  Africa,  its  cold  winds  from  the  Italian  Alps,  and 
to-day  it  is  the  centre  of  high  civilisation,  radiating  from 
Los  Angeles,  a  city  with  a  winter  population  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  souls,  from  which  the  pil- 
grim can  in  a  few  hours,  as  I  have  shown,  reach  almost 
any  altitude  from  the  snow  line  to  the  level  of  the  sea. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  peculiar  climate  of  South- 
ern California,  which  is  now,  and  always  will  be,  the 
loadstone  to  attract  thousands  to  its  shores.  The  entire 
country  has  been  built  up  from  a  series  of  Spanish-Mex- 
ican ranches  to  an  American  principality  in  thirty  years 
and  is  made  up  of  the  cream  of  the  people  of  the  East 
and  Europe,  who  have  come  to  California  not  all  as 
pioneers  or  invalids,  but  in  the  main  men  and  women 


Winter  Verdure  in  Southern  California. 

(i)   Mariposa  Poppy.      (2)   Olive.     (3)  Red  Pepper  Berries. 


Climate  of  Southern  California      367 

of  wealth  in  search  of  that  chimera,  the  perfect  climate ; 
the  climate  without  marked  seasonal  changes  and  ex- 
tremes. The  pictures  of  Southern  California  display  a 
wealth  of  palms  and  other  tropical  verdure  ;  hence  in  the 
public  mind  the  country  is  considered  tropical,  and  the 
tourist  is  often  heard  to  remark,  "If  your  winters  are  so 
mild  your  summers  must  be  very  hot,"  and  the  same 
tourist  waxes  indignant  when  the  Californian  states  that 
Los  Angeles  is  fifty  per  cent,  cooler  than  New  York  in 
summer. 

Southern  California  produces  a  semi-tropic  vegeta- 
tion as  well  as  productions  of  the  temperate  zone,  but  it 
is  far  from  being  tropical.  This  is  not  better  illustrated 
than  by  saying  that  in  winter  Southern  Californians 
dress  as  do  Eastern  people.  They  wear  winter  cloth- 
ing, and  for  two  months  or  longer  have  furnace-  and 
grate-fires,  and  are  extremely  uncomfortable  if  they  do 
not.  They  wear  overcoats  at  night  and  when  riding, 
yet  at  mid-day  they  often  let  the  fires  go  out  and  throw 
open  the  doors  and  windows ;  indeed  it  is  the  cool 
nights  that  make  the  winter. 

It  seems  very  cold  on  these  winter  days  to  the  new- 
comer, but  just  how  cold  it  really  is  I  leave  the  reader  to 
realise  when  I  say  that  in  front  of  my  house  the  helio- 
trope climbs  to  above  the  windows  of  the  first  story. 
This  is  protected  by  the  eaves,  and  is  on  the  south  side 
of  the  house,  yet  in  eight  years  it  has  never  been  touched 
by  frost,  though  I  have  found  ice  in  an  Indian  mortar 
near  by  in  the  early  morning.  It  feels  cold  and  pene- 


368  Life  in  the  Open 

trating,  but  if  the  dweller  in  the  land  goes  out  of  doors 
and  takes  normal  exercise  it  is  not  noticed  ;  at  least 
the  heliotropes,  roses,  stocks,  violets,  and  countless 
others  are  growing  in  the  open  air  every  day  in  the 
Southern  California  winter. 

I  should  call  the  climate  of  Southern  California 
temperate,  with  a  very  small  rainfall ;  a  region  with  two 
summers  :  one  cool,  from  December  to  April,  another 
warmer,  from  April  to  December.  During  the  cool 
summer  it  rains  on  the  average  fifteen  inches,  about 
half  the  rainfall  of  Boston  or  New  York.  The  rain 
often  falls  at  night.  The  remainder  of  the  year  it  does 
not  rain,  but  the  towns  and  cities  are  supplied  with 
water,  in  pipes,  from  the  mountains.  They  turn  this 
on  lawns,  and  irrigate  their  ranches  from  the  same 
source. 

A  climatic  glimpse  of  the  year  may  be  given.  In 
November  the  skies  are  clear,  or  perhaps  in  October, 
and  the  weather  is  cool.  Suddenly,  long,  slender  masses 
of  cloud  appear  along  the  mountain-side,  coming  from 
the  south-east,  and  persist  during  the  day.  They  dis- 
appear, come  again,  and,  after  many  trials,  one  night  it 
begins  to  rain  for  the  first  time  since  May,  or  earlier. 
This  initial  rain  may  continue  several  days,  mostly  at 
night,  or  it  may  clear  after  a  few  hours.  If  there  has 
been  a  fall  of  two  inches,  or  even  one,  an  almost  imme- 
diate change  is  noticed.  The  air  is  free  of  dust,  the 
trees  are  washed  down,  and  all  nature  puts  on  a  smiling 
face,  and  where  the  atmosphere  has  been  hazy  and 


o 


Climate  of  Souhtren  California       369 

thick  it  is  now  clear.  The  mountains  appear  so  near 
that  you  feel  that  you  can  almost  touch  them.  In  a 
short  time  a  wonderful  transformation  comes  over  the 
face  of  nature.  Along  the  roadway  lines  and  masses  of 
green  appear,  and  so  rapidly  do  these  increase  and 
broaden  that  in  a  marvellously  short  space  of  time 
the  land,  that  a  week  or  so  before  was  gray  with 
dead  grasses,  is  now  a  vivid  green.  Nearly  all  this  is 
alfileria  and  clover.  Soon  the  grain-fields  that  have 
been  planted  sprout,  and  another  hue,  that  of  barley, 
oats,  and  other  grains,  is  seen  rippling  smiling  in  the 
sun,  and  from  the  tops  of  hills  a  covering  of  delicate 
green  reaching  away  to  the  distant  sea. 

The  so-called  rainy  season  is  now  on,  and  if  a  nor- 
mal one  it  should  rain  a  day  or  two  once  in  three  or 
four  weeks.  But  sometimes  the  storm  continues  for 
a  longer  time,  and  there  is  a  "  wet  winter,"  and  it  rains 
as  much  as  it  does  in  the  East,  or  forty  inches ;  but  the 
average  for  Los  Angeles  may  be  said  to  be  between 
fifteen  and  twenty  inches  per  annum,  or  half  that  of  the 
New  York  year,  and  the  country  appears  to  thrive  better 
on  it.  If  rain  fell  in  the  summer  the  dry,  cool  climate 
would  disappear. 

In  December  or  January,  if  the  rain  conies  early,  the 
country  is  soon  a  vast  flower-garden,  a  field  of  the  cloth 
of  gold,  ablaze  on  the  upland  slopes  with  the  Escholtzia 
or  so-called  California  poppy,  while  elsewhere  gleam 
the  painter's  brush,  the  scarlet  mimulus,  the  bluette, 


370  Life  in  the  Open 

countless  daisies,  cream-cups  of  delicate  design,  yellow 
violets,  Mariposa  lilies,  the  shooting-star,  suggestive  of 
the  floral  procession  that  marches  on  with  the  coming 
of  winter  days.  The  chapparal  is  now  abloom,  and  in 
mid-winter  the  flaming  red  of  Heteromeles  is  seen 
everywhere,  and  near  the  mountains  the  delicate  laven- 
der of  the  wild  lilac.  It  is  winter,  but  in  some  in- 
comprehensible way  the  flowers  are  in  bloom,  only  the 
sycamores  and  a  few  other  trees  being  bare.  The 
nights  are  cool,  a  fire  is  acceptable  morning  and  even- 
ing, and  the  rains  leave  a  mantle  of  snow  on  the  high 
peaks  ;  San  Antonio,  San  Jacinto,  San  Bernardino  are 
white  all  winter. 

I  can  sit  in  my  garden,  amid  roses  and  orange 
blossoms,  and  watch  the  snow  blowing  up  the  north 
slope  of  the  former,  forty  miles  away,  and  often  the 
entire  range  is  white  with  snow  down  to  the  twenty-five- 
hundred-foot  line ;  but  it  will  be  gone  on  the  lower 
range  perhaps  by  noon,  when  the  houses  in  the  valley 
have  thrown  open  doors  and  windows.  The  snow 
on  the  high  mountains  gives  a  delightful  tang  to  the 
air,  and  makes  the  nights  cool ;  but  the  roses  bloom  on 
and  on  for  ever,  and  the  tomato  ripens  in  protected  val- 
leys. I  hardly  know  to  what  to  compare  such  a  winter  ; 
possibly  October  in  the  East,  when  occasional  frost 
comes,  but  there  is  no  autumnal  display  in  the  low- 
lands, no  masses  of  colour  except  in  the  cafions ;  in- 
stead of  dropping,  leaves  come  out  at  Christmas.  The 
yule-tide  wreaths  are  of  Heteromeles  berries  which 


Climate  of  Southern  California 

grow  on  the  canon  side  ;  oranges  and  lemons  are  ripen- 
ing, and  the  city  gardens  glow  with  every  flower  seen  in 
the  East  in  July. 

So  pass  the  winter  days.  The  land  is  gay  with 
tourists,  and  the  now  green  golf-links  of  Santa  Barbara, 
Coronado,  Avalon,  Los  Angeles,  Riverside,  and  Pasa- 
dena are  filled  with  players  ;  the  mountain  caftons  are 
picnic  grounds,  and  there  are  trips  to  the  coast,  and  sea- 
bathing ;  and  the  towns  along-shore  —  Venice,  Long 
Beach,  Ocean  Park,  Terminal,  Santa  Monica,  Avalon, 
Playa  Del  Ray,  Coronado,  Santa  Barbara,  and  others  are 
crowded  with  an  array  of  visitors  from  all  over  the 
world,  basking  in  the  soft  and  balmy  winds. 

The  rain-storms  now  due  are  often  not  storms  at 
all,  but  gentle  winds.  Again  it  blows  heavily,  and  the 
rain  that  has  been  heralded  off  the  Washington  coast 
strikes  Southern  California  as  a  south-easter ;  a  south- 
east wind  is  an  indication  of  rain.  You  are  impressed  by 
one  feature  in  the  winter  that  is  sure  and  definite  :  you 
rarely  have  a  day  that  some  part  of  it  is  not  available 
for  an  outing  of  some  kind,  and  you  have  never  passed 
a  winter  where  there  were  so  few  rainy  days.  It  is  life 
in  the  open,  and  an  abundance  of  it ;  a  life  of  sunshine. 
Sometimes  there  is  a  "  norther  "  and  the  air  is  "  sting- 
ing," yet  the  flowers  do  not  complain,  and  the  orange- 
trees  have  never  been  killed  down. 

On  these  winter  days  the  thermometer  will  read  at 
mid-day  from  65°  to  75°.  On  rainy  days  or  during  a 
storm  it  will  read  from  55°  to  65°.  The  rains  are  sup- 


372  Life  in  the  Open 

posed  to  continue  until  April,  coming  once  in  three  or 
four  weeks,  in  no  sense  constituting  a  "  rainy  season/' 
which  is  a  popular  delusion.  In  February  or  March 
there  are  often  several  hot  days  ;  then  the  spring  weather^ 
cool,  delightful,  with  high  fog,  comes  and  continues  with 
an  uninterrupted  procession  of  beautiful  days.  The  first 
really  hot  weather  in  May  perhaps  dries  up  the  herbage 
or  alfileria  and  clover.  The  crops  of  barley  and  oats 
are  piled  high,  and  are  being  baled  ;  the  vineyards  are 
masses  of  green  and  the  mesas  are  again  taking  on  the 
brown  hue  of  summer,  though  the  chaparral,  that  clothes 
the  hills  and  mountains,  is  always  green.  In  May  and 
June  the  tender  tints  of  Calochortus,  the  Mariposa  lily, 
white  and  lavender,  cast  a  filmy  sheen  in  little  parterres 
or  along  the  southern  slopes  of  the  hills,  poising  like 
flocks  of  literal  butterflies  over  the  gaunt  and  spined 
leaves  of  cactus.  Early  the  graceful  Brodsea  paints  the 
chaparral  in  vivid  tints  of  lavender,  and  in  the  caftons 
the  wild  tiger  lily  gives  a  flame-like  hue  to  the  rocky 
slopes. 

Every  season  has  its  floral  host,  and  from  May  to 
July  a  signal  blazes  on  the  mountain-sides,  tall  stalks 
shooting  up  here  and  there  like  magic,  the  splendid 
ethereal  bloom  of  the  yucca,  the  "  candlestick  of  the 
Lord,"  an  angelus  of  the  eternal  slopes,  the  clang  of 
whose  bells  is  incense. 

A  strong  breeze  now  blows  regularly  from  the  ocean, 
erroneously  called  the  "  trade  wind,"  stopping  at  night 
to  blow  from  the  mountains,  bringing  a  suggestion  of  sa- 


Climate  of  Southern  California       373 

line  odors  from  the  sea  into  the  great  valleys  by  day,  and 
the  aroma  of  pine  and  fir  by  night.  Up  to  August  2oth 
there  may  be  no  disagreeable  warm  or  hot  days,  and 
when  it  is  warm  it  seems  warmer  than  it  really  is.  At 
one  point,  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  fourteen 
miles  from  it,  the  thermometer  reached  100°  but  twenty- 
three  times  in  five  years,  and  the  showing  at  Los  An- 
geles is  even  more  remarkable. 

When  days  of  excessive  heat  come,  the  wind  is  from 
the  desert  and  it  is  dry,  not  dangerous ;  and  during  it 
the  death  rate  of  a  large  city  like  Los  Angeles,  with  over 
two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  will  not  veer  from 
normal,  while  a  hot  "  wave  "  in  the  East  will  strike  down 
hundreds,  children  and  adults.  This  refers  to  the  in- 
terior towns  twenty  or  thirty  miles  from  the  sea,  as 
Pasadena.  Those  nearer  the  desert  are  much  hotter, 
but  in  all  these  places  the  nights  are  cool,  and  on  the 
hottest  days  the  man  who  stands  under  a  tree  will  soon 
move  into  the  sun  to  "  cool  off."  In  a  word,  in  the  East 
and  South  the  air  becomes  heated  and  the  interior  of  a 
house  is  nearly  as  warm  as  out  of  doors,  but  in  South- 
ern California  summers  the  normal  air  remains  cool ;  it 
is  constantly  coming  from  the  sea  and  does  not  be- 
come heated  in  the  Eastern  sense ;  hence  those  who  un- 
derstand the  country  open  up  their  houses  early  in 
the  morning  on  very  warm  days,  allow  the  clear 
night  air  to  percolate  through  them,  and  at  nine 
o'clock  close  the  house,  shutting  out  the  heat,  keeping 
the  temperature  at  70°  or  below  75°  until  three  or  four 


374  Life  in  the  Open 

o'clock,  when  the  wind  is  cooler  and  the  house  is 
thrown  open. 

At  the  seashore,  the  towns  from  Santa  Barbara  to 
Coronado,  days  so  hot  as  to  be  a  menace  to  comfort  are 
extremely  rare.  The  summer  fog  that  is  almost  always 
to  be  seen  off  the  coast,  a  high  fog,  is  the  balance  wheel 
giving  cool  days.  It  comes  in  at  night  and  rarely  re- 
mains after  sunrise,  passing  off  leaving  the  grass  drip- 
ping with  moisture,  often  depositing  one  one-hundredth 
of  an  inch  of  water  ;  the  air  is  crisp  and  delicious.  This 
fog,  common  to  all  the  coast,  is  always  welcome  and  is 
in  no  sense  a  menace  to  health,  this  being  the  consensus 
of  opinion  among  leading  physicians.  Dr.  John  M. 
Radebaugh,  who  has  lived  twenty-five  years  in  Pasadena, 
considers  this  region  preeminent  in  America  as  a  health 
resort ;  indeed  the  fog  is  regarded  as  a  benefit  to  the 
land  and  its  people. 

The  old  resident  in  California  will,  as  a  rule,  tell  the 
new-comer  that  he  knows  nothing  about  the  climate, 
and  that  all  signs,  especially  the  "  rain  signs,"  fail ;  yet 
there  are  certain  facts  relating  to  the  climate  that  are 
definitely  known.  Perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  feat- 
ure in  the  country  is  the  constant  cool  west  wind  that 
blows  all  day,  in  fact  everywhere  in  California,  but  south 
of  Point  Conception  it  loses  some  of  its  force  and  is 
a  pleasant  wind  that  makes  Southern  California  summer 
climate  what  it  is.  It  begins  in  the  morning  from  eight 
to  nine  o'clock,  increases  in  force  until  three  or  so,  and 
then  begins  to  wane  ;  always  steady,  blowing  under  clear 


Pasadena's  Varied  Climates. 

(0  Board  of  Trade  at  McXally  Ranch,  picking  roses  at  10  A.M 
Lowe  incline.      (3)    12   M.  'Entering  the  snow,  3500  feet. 
— putting  on  snowshoes. 


(2)    ii   A.M.  Taking  Mt. 
(4)    12.30  P.M.       4500  feet 


Climate  of  Southern  California 


375 


skies,  bracing  and  health-giving.  I  have  been  drifting 
in  the  Santa  Catalina  Channel  in  a  dead  calm  when  I 
suddenly  heard  a  roar  far  away  to  the  west,  and  have  seen 
a  ridge  of  whitecaps  coming  on  like  a  tidal  wave,  the 
approach  of  the  morning  wind.  Hardly  has  the  west 
wind  died  down  in  the  afternoon  when  it  begins  to  blow 
in  an  opposite  direction,  and  all  night  the  land  along- 
shore has  a  breeze  that  sweeps  down  from  the  verdure- 
clad  mountains. 

Each  day,  then,  in  summer,  Southern  California  has 
two  distinct  and  opposite  winds:  one  from  the  ocean, 
and  one  at  night  from  the  mountains  and  vast  arid 
region  which  surrounds  the  land  to  the  east,  a  rare  com- 
bination that  cannot  but  have  its  effect  as  a  vigorous 
and  health-giving  tonic.  In  twenty  years  I  have  seen 
but  two  gales  which  were  alarming  to  some  people  in 
the  San  Gabriel  Valley,  and  neither  one  equalled  the 
heavy  north-easters  I  have  known  on  the  Atlantic  coast 
and  the  furious  wind  squalls  of  the  intercontinental 
region.  Hurricanes  and  cyclones  are  unknown  in  South- 
ern California.  Four  or  five  years  will  pass  without  a 
thunder-storm,  and  the  town  of  Pasadena  has  been  struck 
by  lightning  but  twice  to  my  knowledge  in  twenty  years. 
These  phenomena  are  not  a  part  of  the  normal  condi- 
tions of  things  ;  they  are  the  rare  exceptions. 

There  is  a  feature  of  the  Pacific  coast  that  many 
writers  and  authors  credit  with  having  a  decided  in- 
fluence upon  the  climate  of  the  Pacific  coast.  This  is 
the  so-called  Black  Current  of  Japan,  the  Kuro  Shiwo, 


376  Life  in  the  Open 

which  sweeps  up  the  coast  of  China  from  the  tropics, 
crosses  the  north  Pacific  and  flows  down  the  west  coast 
of  North  America.  If  this  current  holds  its  temperature 
to  any  considerable  degree  it  would  hardly  seem  possible 
that  it  should  not  to  some  extent  modify  the  climate  of 
California  that  differs  so  notably  from  points  in  the  same 
latitude  on  the  Atlantic  coast ;  but  Professor  Alexander 
G.  McAdie,  professor  of  meteorology  of  the  U.  S. 
Weather  Bureau,  stationed  at  San  Francisco,  who  has 
made  a  study  of  the  climatology  of  California,  be- 
lieves that  the  current  has  very  little  influence  upon  the 
coast,  and  he  ascribes  the  prevailing  west  winds,  which 
are  factors  in  the  summer  climate,  to  an  "  easterly  drift 
of  the  atmosphere  in  temperate  latitudes."  The  follow- 
ing is  taken  from  Professor  McAdie's  report  of  1903  : 

"  The  prevailing  easterly  drift  of  the  atmosphere  in 
temperate  latitudes,  causing  the  well-known  winds  from 
the  west,  is  one  of  the  prime  factors  in  modifying  the 
climate  of  the  coast  of  California.  This  coast  line, 
stretching  for  10  degrees  of  latitude,  is  subjected  to  a 
steady  indraft  of  air  from  the  west.  In  this  movement, 
together  with  the  fact  that  to  the  west  is  the  great 
Pacific  Ocean,  lies  the  secret  of  the  difference  in  tem- 
peratures between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific  coasts  at 
places  of  like  latitude.  For  some  years  there  has  been  an 
impression  that  the  milder  climate  of  the  Pacific  coast 
was  due  to  a  warming  influence  of  the  Kuro  Skiwo,  or 
Japan  current.  No  reliable  data  exist  to  support  such 
a  belief,  and  it  is  quite  unlikely  that  the  Japan  current 


Climate  of  Southern  California 


377 


plays  any  important  part  in  modifying  the  climate  of 
the  Pacific  coast.  The  active  factors  are,  as  said  above, 
the  prevailing  easterly  drift  of  the  atmosphere  and  the 
proximity  of  the  mass  of  water,  a  great  natural  conserv- 
ator of  heat.  .  .  .  It  is  probable  that  if  one  of 
these  conditions  (the  easterly  drift  of  the  air  and 
the  proximity  of  the  ocean  in  modifying  climate)  could 
be  reversed  and  the  general  movement  of  the  air  in 
these  latitudes  lie  from  east  to  west,  marked  differences 
in  climatic  conditions  would  result,  and  the  Pacific 
coast  might  then  have  a  rigorous  climate." 

The  cause  of  rains — why  some  reach  Southern  Cali- 
fornia and  others  pass  east  in  the  latitude  of  Oregon  or 
San  Francisco,  and  why  it  does  not  rain  in  Southern 
California  from  May  to  November — is  often  a  puzzle  to 
the  stranger.  Very  briefly,  the  facts  are  as  follows: 
What  is  known  to  meteorologists  as  the  North  Pacific 
cyclone  belt  is  an  important  factor  in  producing  storms 
in  Southern  California,  which  are  cyclonic  disturbances 
that  rise  or  are  created  far  to  the  west  on  the  great  Jap- 
anese current.  The  North  Pacific  cyclone  belt,  influ- 
enced by  the  sun,  moves  north  in  summer  and  follows 
the  sun  south  in  winter;  hence  in  summer  it  is  well 
north,  and  the  storms  which  come  in  from  the  Pacific  pass 
east  without  coming  below  San  Francisco ;  but  as 
winter  approaches  and  the  sun  retreats  to  the  south  the 
cyclone  belt  comes  farther  south,  and  passing  storms  im- 
pinge on  Southern  California ;  singularly  enough,  coming 
from  the  south-east  or  east,  cloud  banks  creeping  along 


378  Life  in  the  Open 

the  Sierra  Madre  range  from  that  direction  being  almost 
infallible  evidence  of  a  coming  rain  in  the  San  Gabriel 
Valley  and  Southern  California  in  general. 

Professor  McAdie  traced  one  of  these  storms  by 
means  of  the  logs  of  passing  vessels.  It  began  off  the 
east  coast  of  the  Philippines,  latitude  15°,  longitude  150° 
west,  Nov.  2Oth,  moving  due  west  to  about  latitude  20°, 
longitude  130°  west.  On  the  Qth  of  December  the 
storm  Was  off  Japan  in  latitude  39°  (approximately), 
longitude  150°  west.  It  now  turned  south-east,  and  on 
the  nth  of  December  made  a  complete  turn  or  loop  in 
four  days ;  then  passed  east  along  the  3Oth  parallel, 
where  on  the  23d  of  December  it  began  another  loop 
north  of  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  and  en  January  3d 
again  moving  east  and  north-east,  reaching  on  the  8th 
45°  north  latitude  145°  east  longitude.  Here  it  di- 
vided ;  one  part  went  to  the  north-east,  reaching  land 
about  50°  north  latitude  on  the  I2th  of  January,  while 
another  branch  went  south,  then  north-east,  entering 
Northern  California  at  latitude  43°  on  the  I2th  of  Janu- 
ary, then  sweeping  down  across  the  State,  reaching  the 
latitude  of  Los  Angeles,  but  to  the  east,  on  the  i3th  of 
January. 

This  storm  took  a  month  to  pass  from  near  the 
Philippines  to  the  latitude  of  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  and 
thirteen  days,  or  about  two  weeks,  more  to  reach  Los  An- 
geles, where,  doubtless,  it  appeared  as  a  rain-storm  com- 
ing from  a  totally  different  direction, — the  south-east. 
This  storm  is  accurately  charted  in  Chart  No.  XII. 


Pasadena's  Varied  Climates  (continued). 

(5)  12.45  P.M. Snow  balling.  (6)1.30  P.M.  At  Trout  Pool,  McNally  Ranch,  Summer  again. 
(?)  3-3°  P-M-  Bathing  in  the  Pacific  at  Santa  Monica.  (8)  5  P.M.  Back  in  a  Pasadena, 
orange  grove  reading  congratulatory  telegrams  over  their  feat. 


Climate  of  Southern  California       379 

in  the  Report  of  the  Climatology  of  California,  1903, 
and  is  extremely  interesting  as  showing  the  devious 
paths  of  rain-storms  which  reach  this  favored  section. 

The  rainfall  of  Southern  California  for  a  number  of 
years  is  shown  in  the  following  table,  which  tells  the 
story  of  minimum  dampness  and  malarial  conditions, 
and  a  maximum  number  of  sunshiny  days  in  the  year. 

Rainfall  in  Los  Angeles  : 


1878  

20.86 

1891 

T-7  9,4 

1879  

17.41 

1892 

TQ  •., 

1880  

i8.6c 

1803  . 

1881  

1804. 

1882  

i8oc 

•51 

1883  . 

1896 

I2-55 

T  T  fln 

1884  

1807  . 

14  28 

1885  

1898  

A  8? 

1886  

1800  . 

8  69 

1887  ,. 

IQOO    

T  T  7O 

1888  

lOoi  . 

II  ng 

1889  . 

.  3^.31 

IQO2  . 

I  3  12 

I8OO   . 

.  12.60 

I  OO3  . 

.  14.  77 

It  is  not  intended  here  to  give  an  elaborate  state- 
ment of  the  climatic  conditions,  but  to  present  in  as  few 
words  as  possible  the  reasons  for  the  various  climatic 
phenomena  that  are  so  conspicuous  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, and  to  answer  some  of  the  questions  that  are 
often  propounded  by  visitors  and  sportsmen  who  are 
spending  the  season  in  the  State. 

Southern  California  is  not  a  winter  resort  alone. 
True,  it  has  climatic  attractions  at  this  season  that  are 
superior  to  any  in  Europe,  but  to  the  sportsman  who 


38o  Life  in  the  Open 

would  see  the  beauties  of  its  splendid  mountains,  its 
cool  sea-coast,  and  its  unexcelled  sea-fishing,  I  com- 
mend it  as  a  summer  resort,  as  well.  From  March  or 
April  to  December,  its  life  in  the  open  can  be  enjoyed 
without  interference,  and  its  resorts  along  shore  will  be 
found  cooler  than  any  on  the  Atlantic  coast  of  the 
United  States  south  of  Maine.  No  storms,  no  fog  in 
the  daytime,  an  absence  of  mosquitoes,  cool  nights,  no 
malaria,  and  the  best  big  game-fish  angling  in  the 
world.  In  winter  the  land  is  a  garden,  and  days  follow 
days  almost  perfect  and  beautiful.  Golf  days,  we  might 
call  them,  as  then  the  golfer  is  in  the  land,  and  the  fine 
clubs  and  links  of  Santa  Barbara,  Avalon,  Los  Angeles, 
Pasadena,  Riverside,  and  Coronado  are  now  at  their 
best  The  days  are  "  fresh,"  and  snow  is  not  met  with 
except  in  the  high  altitudes.  The  lower  ranges  and 
their  attractive  cartons  are  the  winter  picnic  grounds  of 
Southern  California.  Many  Eastern  visitors  bring  their 
motor-cars,  and  the  roads  are  filled  with  life  and  colour, 
from  Santa  Barbara  to  Coronado,  all  during  the  Cali- 
fornian  winter  of  soft  winds  and  flowers. 


Appendices 


381 


Appendices 


Los  Angeles 


Population,  250,000.  Annual  mean  temperature  for  twenty  years,  62°. '  For 
coldest  month,  January,  54°;  warmest,  August,  72°.  Average  sunshine,  75  per 
cent.  Clear  days,  317.  Number  of  thunder-storms  in  twenty-four  years,  32. 
Average  annual  rainfall  in  twenty-four  years,  15.71  inches.  Prevailing  direction 
of  wind  from  April  to  November,  south-west  and  west.  November  to  March, 
north  and  north-east.  Prevailing  wind,  average  for  twenty-four  years,  west. 
Number  of  days  temperature  below  32°  in  twenty  years,  13.  (U.  S.  Station.) 

San  Diego  and  Coronado 

Average  daily  change  of  temperature,  2°.  Extremes  in  thirty  years,  101"  and 
32°.  Temperature  has  exceeded  90°  but  nineteen  times  in  thirty  years.  Four 
frosts  have  occurred  in  that  time.  Annual  mean,  61.4°.  In  9496  days  there  were 
9181  days  of  temperature  not  above  80°,  nor  below  40°.  Average  humidity  for 
January,  74.9  ;  for  August,  85.4.  Average  number  of  rainy  days  per  annum,  41. 
Annual  rainfall,  9.52  inches.  Average  yearly  thunder-storms  in  eleven  years,  I. 

This  also  relates  to  Coronado.  Professor  McAdie  says :  "  The  climate  of  Coro- 
nado is  substantially  that  of  San  Diego.  The  differences  are  slight."  The 
climatic  conditions  of  these  places  are  remarkable  for  minimum  lack  of  change 
day  by  day,  throughout  the  year.  Coronado  temperature  average  for  the  year, 
61.7.  Average  daily  range,  13.8.  Average  number  of  days  clear,  239;  partly 
cloudy,  70  ;  cloudy,  56  ;  fog,  18  ;  rainy,  42. 

Riverside 

851  feet  above  level  of  sea;  mean  annual  rainfall,  10  inches.  Mean  annual 
temperature  for  19  years,  62.9.  January,  51.1;  August,  76.4. 

Riverside  is  famous  for  its  oranges  and  well-nigh  perfect  winter  climate.    The 


1  These  references  to  the  climate  of  Southern  California  towns  and  cities  are 
compiled  from  the  reports  of  Professor  McAdie  of  the  U.  S.  Weather  Bureau  of 
San  Francisco. 

383 


Life  in  the  Open 


summers  are  warmer  than  at  Los  Angeles  ;  nights  cool,  climate  bracing.    Sum- 
mer heat  dry,  not  debilitating. 

Redlands 

1,352  feet  above  sea.  Annual  average  temperature,  64°.  Relative  humidity 
low.  Annual  rainfall  (12  years),  14.70  inches.  Winters  mild  and  beautiful. 
Grand  mountain  scenery,  snow-capped  mountains.  Summers  warmer  than  Los 
Angeles  ;  heat  dry,  but  not  menace  to  health  anywhere  in  the  state. 

Pasadena 

Stands  at  head  of  San  Gabriel  Valley.  Altitude  828  feet ;  25  miles  from  ocean. 
Indiana  colony  selected  locality  for  town  site  after  examining  all  Southern  Cali- 
fornia. Nine  miles  from  Los  Angeles,  second  city  in  Southern  California.  An- 
nual average  rainfall,  13  inches.  Mean  temperature,  59.8;  maximum,  85.8; 
minimum,  39.2.  Mean  for  January,  56.2  ;  mean  for  August,  70.6. 

COMPARATIVE     AVERAGE     TEMPERATURES     AT     CELEBRATED 

RESORTS  WITH  PASADENA  AS  A  TYPE  OF  SOUTHERN 

CALIFORNIA  INLAND  CLIMATE. 


PLACE. 

Winter. 

Spring. 

Summer. 

Autumn. 

Difference, 
Summer 
and  Winter. 

56.  oo 

6l.O7 

67  6l 

62  31 

II  6l 

Funchal    Madeira  

62.88 

64.56, 

70.  8q 

7O  I  Q 

8  IO 

St.  Michael,  Azores  

57.83 

61.17 

68.33 

62.11 

IO.e,O 

Santa  Cruz,  Canaries  

64.65 

68.87 

76.68 

74.  17 

12.  01 

Nassau,  Bahama  Islands.. 
Cadiz    Spain  

70.67 

62.  QO 

77.67 
en  q-i 

86.00 
7o  41 

80.33 
6?  is 

15.33 
T7  61 

Lisbon  ,  Portugal  

51.  OO 

6o.OO 

71  oo 

62  oo 

18  oo 

Malta       

6,7.4.6 

62  76 

78  20 

71  O1 

2O  7  A 

55.OO 

66.OO 

77.00 

6o.OO 

22.OO 

St.  Augustine,  Florida  
Rome    Italy  

58.25 
48.QO 

68.69 
57.65 

80.36 
72.16 

71.90 
6l.q6 

22.11 
21  26 

Sacramento,  California.  .  .  . 
Mentone  

47.92 
4Q.5O 

59-17 
6o.OO 

71.19 

73.00 

61.72 
56.6o 

23.27 
21.6,0 

Nice,  France  

47.88 

56.23 

72.26 

61.63 

24.44 

New  Orleans,    Louisiana.. 
Cairo    Egypt  

56.00 

^8.6.2 

69.37 

73.58 

81.08 
85.10 

69.80 

71.48 

25.08 
26.  6.8 

Jacksonville,  Florida  

55-02 

68.88 

8i.93 

62.54 

26.91 

Santa  Barbara 

Like  nearly  all  the  seashore  towns  of  Southern  California,  Santa  Barbara  has  a 
remarkably  perfect  climate.  It  stands  on  the  shore,  backed  by  the  Santa  Ynez 
range,  protected  by  the  Santa  Barbara  Islands.  The  temperature  of  winter 
and  spring  months  approximates  56°,  summer  and  fall  63°.  The  annual  mean 


Appendices  385 

temperature  is  about  60°.  Average  yearly  rainfall  16.59  inches.  It  has  all  the 
charm  of  the  resorts  of  Southern  France  and  Italy,  with  none  of  the  drawbacks — 
cold  and  hot  winds. 

Santa  Monica 

Santa  Monica,  Redondo,  San  Buenaventura,  Long  Beach,  Terminal,  San  Pedro, 
Ocean  Park,  Venice,  Playa  Del  Rey,  Newport,  Huntington  Beach,  Naples,  San 
Juan,  La  Jolla,  Carlsbad,  Alamitos,  Laguna,  and  others  are  seaside  resorts  which 
have  cool  summers  and  warm  winters — ideal  conditions.  None  have  government 
weather  stations,  but  they  vary  but  little  from  Santa  Barbara  as  regards  extremes 
of  temperature,  and  the  rainfall  is  about  the  same. 

San  Bernardino 

San  Bernardino  and  Colton  have  about  the  same  conditions  of  Redlands  and 
Riverside. 

Santa  Ana 

The  climatic  conditions  of  Santa  Ana,  Tustin,  Orange,  El  Toro,  Whittier,  San. 
Juan  Capistrano,  and  other  towns  of  this  region  are  very  similar  to  those  of  Los 
Angeles.  Nearly  all  are  connected  by  a  network  of  electric  roads,  and  easily 
reached  from  Los  Angeles. 

Insular  Climate  of  Southern  California 

The  record  of  a  year  (1905)  at  Avalon,  Santa  Catalina  Island,  Los  Angeles 
County,  California,  illustrating  the  remarkable  uniformity  of  climate  and  lack  of 
decided  change  between  summer  and  winter  in  a  climate  by  no  means  tropical. 

TEMP.  AIR  TEMP.  WATER            TEMP.  AIR  TEMP.  WATER 

2.OO  P.M.  4-OO  P.M.                   2.OO  P.M.  4-OO  P.M. 

Jan.       i  62  63  Jfn'     '3  60  63 

«         2  62  63                             '4  63  64 

«         3  62  63  "       15  63  66 

"         4  62  63  "        16  60  63 

5  62  65  "        17  61  64 

6  62  64  "        18  60  62 

7  62  65  "19  60  64 

8  63  64  "        20  61  64 

9  63  64  "       21  63  65 
»        10  62  63  "       22  59  64 

u  62  60  "       23  63 

"        12  59  63  "       *4  63  65 


386 


Life  in  the  Open 


TEMP.  AIR 

TEMP.  WATER 

TEMP.  AIR 

TEMP.  WAT 

2.OO  P.M. 

4.00  P.M. 

2.OO  P.M. 

4.00  P.M. 

Jan. 

25 

65 

65 

Mar.  1  1 

64 

65 

" 

26 

62 

64 

"    12 

62 

65 

" 

27 

62 

65 

13 

65 

65 

" 

28 

61 

64 

14 

63 

63 

" 

29 

61 

65 

15 

62 

63 

" 

30 

61 

64 

16 

61 

63 

" 

31 

53 

64 

17 

61 

63 

Feb. 

I 

62 

63 

18 

61 

66 

M 

2 

53 

64 

"   19 

66 

66 

" 

3 

63 

62 

"    20 

66 

66 

" 

4 

61 

63 

"    21 

6l 

66 

" 

5 

60 

64 

"    22 

61 

66 

" 

6 

59 

63 

23 

63 

66 

" 

7 

63 

63 

24 

64 

66 

" 

8 

63 

63 

25 

64 

66 

" 

9 

59 

63 

26 

64 

66 

" 

10 

62 

63 

27 

62 

65 

" 

ii 

62 

63 

28 

63 

62 

" 

12 

57 

69 

29 

62 

62 

" 

13 

58 

62 

30 

58 

67 

" 

14 

64 

63 

"    31 

64 

62 

" 

15 

61 

62 

Apr.   I 

62 

66 

" 

16 

63 

64 

2 

61 

64 

" 

I? 

62 

63 

3 

63 

66 

" 

18 

61 

63 

4 

60 

65 

" 

19 

62 

63 

5 

62 

64 

" 

20 

62 

64 

6 

60 

65 

" 

21 

65 

64 

7 

61 

60 

ii 

22 

70 

63 

8 

61 

62 

" 

23 

63 

63 

9 

61 

62 

" 

24 

60 

64 

"    10 

61 

63 

" 

25 

60 

64 

"   ii 

60 

64 

" 

26 

63 

65 

"     12 

62 

63 

" 

27 

63 

65 

"   13 

64 

66 

" 

28 

63 

65 

14 

62 

65 

Mar. 

I 

65 

66 

15 

64 

63 

ii 

2 

72 

67 

16 

63 

66 

" 

3 

68 

70 

17 

62 

64 

" 

4 

60 

64 

18 

65 

64 

M 

5 

63 

65 

"    19 

64 

63 

" 

6 

63 

67 

"    20 

65 

64 

" 

7 

64 

67 

"    21 

61 

62 

" 

8 

64 

66 

"    22 

66 

64 

'« 

9 

64 

65 

23 

66 

64 

" 

TO 

64 

65 

24 

66 

65 

Appendices 


387 


TEMP.  AIR 

2.OO  P.M. 

Apr.  25 
26 

63 
62 

TEMP.  WATER 

4-00  P.M. 
64 

TEMP.  AIR 

2.OO  P.M. 

June  9 

65 

TEMP.  WATER 

4-00  P.M. 

69 

27 

62 

66 

''    10 

64 

72 

28 

64 

65 

ii 

73 

72 

29 

62 

64 

12 

66 

71 

30 

66 

*f 

"   13 

67 

71 

May   i 

2 

3 
4 
5 

64 
63 

63 

62 
66 

64 
63 
64 
64 
64 

14 
15 

"   16 

"   18 

64 
63 
63 
66 
64 

76 
69 

71 
66 
67 

6 

65 

V*T 

66 

"   19 

64 

69 

7 

62 

66 

"    20 

67 

72 

8 

62 

64 

"    21 

66 

70 

"    9 
"   10 

62 
66 

WtT 

64 
6-? 

"    22 

"    23 

65 
63 

68 
70 

"   ii 

64 

WJ 

66 

24 

67 

69 

"    12 

"    13 

61 
62 

65 

68 

26 

64 
66 

70 
69 

15 

16 
17 

18 
19 
"   20 

"    21 
"    22 

68 
70 
65 
62 
67 
64 
64 
60 
64 

68 
69 
64 
68 
67 
67 
65 
67 
66 

"    27 
28 
"    29 
30 
July   i 
"     2 
3 
4 
5 
6 

66 
66 
65 
65 
66 
68 
68 
68 
67 
68 

72 
70 
72 
7i 
69 
7i 
70 
72 

73 
71 

23 
24 
25 
"    26 
27 
28 

67 
68 
64 
64 

65 
62 

68 
66 

67 
64 

67 
67 

7 

8 

9 

"    10 

"   ii 

"    12 

68 
69 
70 
70 
69 
70 

/  • 
74 
73 
74 
69 
72 
73 

29 

64 

69 

13 

70 

74 

30 

65 

70 

14 

68 

74 

31 
June   i 
"     2 

3 

66 
67 
66 
66 

68 
67 
68 
68 

15 

16 
17 

18 

69 
69 
69 
68 

74 
73 
74 
72 

4 

66 

69 

19 

68 

74 

5 

66 

62 

"   20 

68 

74 

6 

63 

69 

"    21 

65 

72 

7 

65 

68 

"    22 

68 

76 

8 

67 

69 

"    23 

67 

73 

388 


Life  in  the  Open 


TEMP.  AIR 

2. ix)  P.M. 
July  24 

25 

"  26 
"  27 
"  28 
"  29 

30 

"   31 

Aug.   I 

"     2 

3 
4 
5 
6 

7 
8 

9 
10 
ii 

"    12 

"   13 
14 

"   15 
16 

"   17 
18 

"  *9 

"  20 

"  21 

"  22 

"  23 

"  24 

"   25 

"  26 

••   27 

"  28 

••  29 

30 

"  31 


Sept. 


TEMP.  WATER     TEMP.  AIR      TEMP.  WATER 

4.00  P.M. 

2.00  P.M 

. 

4.OO  P.M. 

72 

72 

Sept.  7 

72 

73 

65 

73 

8 

72 

76 

66 

73 

9 

69 

72 

66 

72 

"    10 

67 

73 

66 

7i 

"   ii 

67 

73 

67 

72 

"    12 

70 

76 

es 

72 

13 

71 

76 

66 

72 

14 

71 

74 

68 

72 

15 

70 

74 

66 

70 

16 

70 

74 

67 

72 

17 

70 

74 

66 

71 

18 

70 

72 

68 

71 

19 

70 

75 

68 

72 

"    20 

70 

75 

67 

73 

"    21 

71 

72 

70 

72 

"    22 

71 

72 

67 

76 

23 

71 

72 

67 

76 

24 

71 

72 

67 

76 

"   25 

67 

70 

68 

71 

26 

67 

70 

68 

73 

27 

70 

72 

67 

7i 

28 

72 

73 

66 

73 

"  29 

81 

73 

66 

73 

"  30 

73 

71 

67 

72 

Oct.   i 

73 

72 

69 

71 

44     2 

72 

72 

71 

72 

3 

73 

72 

68 

72 

4 

70 

7i 

68 

71 

5 

7i 

7i| 

69 

71 

6 

6?i 

71 

64 

73 

7 

67 

72 

67 

73 

8 

69 

7i 

69 

73 

9 

72 

70 

69 

74 

"   10 

69 

69 

72 

74 

"   ii 

68 

70 

74 

75 

"    12 

66 

69 

74 

76 

13 

65 

69 

72 

74 

14 

66J 

69 

72 

76 

15 

66 

68 

72 

75 

16 

66 

69 

72 

75 

17 

65 

68 

71 

75 

18 

64 

68 

71 

75 

"   19 

64 

69 

71 

75 

"   20 

65 

69 

71 

73 

"    21 

64 

98 

Appendices 


389 


TEMP.  AIR 

TEMP.  WATER 

TEMP.  AIR 

TEMP.  WATER 

2.OO  P.M. 

4.OO  P.M. 

2.OO  P.M. 

4.00  P.M. 

Oct.  22 

65 

68 

Nov.  27 

58 

63 

"   23 

62 

67 

"   28 

64 

62 

24 

64 

69 

"   29 

56 

63 

'   25 

67 

69 

"   30 

6l 

64 

26 

58 

68 

Dec.   i 

56 

63 

•   27 

63 

69 

"     2 

60 

62 

•   28 

58 

67 

3 

64 

63 

29 

62 

69 

4 

59 

64 

1 

30 

58 

65 

5 

60 

63 

« 

31 

63 

67 

6 

61 

62 

N 

V.   I 

62 

67 

7 

63 

63* 

" 

2 

64 

68 

8 

62 

61 

« 

3 

62 

68 

9 

63 

62 

• 

4 

65 

67 

«'    10 

63 

61 

5 

56 

"   ii 

60 

61 

6 

60 

"    12 

61 

62 

7 

54 

61 

i.    I;} 

61 

63 

8 

67 

68 

«   14 

60 

63 

9 

64 

66| 

15 

56  (cold  wave) 

63 

10 

62 

67 

16 

60 

62 

ii 

63 

66 

17 

58 

63 

12 

61 

67 

18 

60 

63 

13 

61 

67 

"   19 

58 

63 

14 

63 

67 

"   20 

56 

62 

15 

66 

67 

«'    21 

56 

62 

16 

63 

66 

"    22 

55 

61 

17 

18 

19 

20 

62 
62 
61 
62 

67 
66 

65* 
65 

"    23 
24 
"    25 
26 

54 
51 
55 
60 

(cold  wave) 
11 

63 
60 
61 
62 

21 
22 

53 
61 

65 
62 

««    27 
•'    28 

63 

54 

ii 

63 
62 

23 
24 
'    25 
'    26 

60 

63 
61 

63 

63 
62 
64 
65 

"    29 
"    30 
'*    31 

56 
54 
52 

ii 

61 
61 

58 

390  Life  in  the  Open 


Resume 

The  remarkable  features  of  the  insular  climate  of  Southern  California.are  well 
shown  in  the  record  of  Avalon.  January  and  February  are  the  coldest  months 
here,  and  the  general  average  temperature  in  the  shade  or  under  a  piazza  is  about 
63°  ;  the  temperature  of  the  ocean,  about  64°.  Notice  the  lack  of  extremes  day 
after  day.  In  August  the  general  average  may  be  said  to  be  about  66°  or  67°,  or 
four  or  five  degrees  warmer  than  the  average  in  mid-winter.  In  a  word,  here  is  a 
climate  having  a  minimum  of  changes,  a  temperate  climate,  yet  allowing  a  flora  of 
palm  and  other  tropical  forms.  The  highest  temperature  in  July,  1905,  was  72° 
the  lowest  65°,  which  tells  the  story  of  a  summer  much  cooler  than  any  on  the 
Atlantic  Coast.  The  highest  temperature  in  August  was  74°  ;  the  highest  in  Sep- 
tember, 81°,  on  one  day ;  the  highest  in  all  other  days  in  September  being  74°. 
The  hottest  day  in  October  was  73°,  the  coolest  58°.  The  warmest  day  in 
November  was  66°,  the  coolest  53°.  December,  1905.  saw  the  coldest  weather 
Southern  California  has  experienced  in  twenty  years  ;  old  residents  voted  it  ex- 
tremely disagreeable.  The  lowest  temperature  at  Avalon  during  this  month  was 
51°,  the  highest  64°.  The  lowest  sea  (bathing)  temperature  was  58",  the 
highest  64°. 

California  State  Game  and  Fish  Laws — Open  Season 
1905-1906 — For  Closed  Season  Reverse  the  Dates 

BAG  LIMIT 

Quail,  rail,  grouse,  snipe,  curlew,  ibis,  plover,  doves — 25  in  one  day. 

Ducks — 50  in  one  day. 

Deer,  male — 2  in  one  season. 

Deer — August  ist  to  October  15th. 

Doves — July  ist  to  February  isth. 

Mountain  quail,  grouse,  sage  hen — September  ist  to  February  15th. 

Valley  quail,  ducks,  ibis,  curlew,  plover,  rail — October  isth  to  February  I5th. 

Snipe — October  isth  to  April  ist. 

Trout — April  ist  to  November  ist. 

Steelhead  Trout — October  i6th  to  February  ist.  April  ist  to  September  loth. 
Two  seasons. 

Salmon — October  i6th  to  September  loth.  Above  tide  water  close  season  ex- 
tends to  November  isth. 

Lobster  or  crawfish — (Not  less  than  9^  in.  long) — September  isth  to  April  ist. 

Black  bass — June  ist  to  January  ist. 

Crab— (No  crab  taken  less  than  6  in.  across  the  back) — November  1st  to 
September  ist. 

N.  B. — In  some  counties  the  open  seasons  are  shorter. 

Fine  for  violation  of  game  laws — $25  to  $500  and  imprisonment.  Fine  for 
violation  of  fish  laws — $20  to  $500  and  imprisonment.  Smallest  fine  for  using 
explosives  to  take  any  kind  of  fish — $250  and  imprisonment. 


Appendices  39, 

Los  Angeles  County  Game  Laws— Changes  Made 
by  County  Ordinances  in  Open  Seasons 

Deer  :     August  15  to  October  i. 
Doves  :     August  15  (only  one  day). 
Mountain  quail  :     September  I  to  October  15. 
Valley  quail  :     October  15  to  February  i. 

Santa  Barbara  County 

Deer :     August  i  to  September  i. 

Riverside  County 

Deer  :     August  i  to  September  15. 
Mountain  trout  :     May  i  to  July  r. 

San  Bernadino  County 

Doves  :     September  15  (only  one  day). 
Mountain  quail  :     September  i  to  October  15. 
Valley  quail  :     October  15  to  February  i. 
Trout :     May  15  to  November  i. 

Oceanic  Game  Fishes  in  Season 

Tuna  (summer  months  best)— June,  July.  Black  sea  bass— June  to  Novem- 
ber. White  sea  bass— April  to  November.  Yellowtail— March  to  December. 
Sheepshead,  albacore,  bonito,  rock  bass,  whitefish — all  the  year.  Barracuda — 
June  to  September.  Sword-fish— June  to  September.  Surf-fish,  yellowfin— all 
the  year. 

LIST  OF  OCEANIC  GAME  FISHES 
taken  with  rod  and  reel  in  Southern  California  waters  and  maximum,  weights  : 

Leaping  tuna  ( Thunnus  thynnus),  250  Ibs.  Black  sea  bass  (Stereokpis gigas), 
429  Ibs.  Whitefish  (Caulolatilus princeps),  15  Ibs.  Yellowtail  (Seriola  dorsalis), 
50  Ibs.  White  sea  bass  (Cynoscion  nobilis),  80  Ibs.  Albacore  (Germo  alalunga), 
17  Ibs.  Yellowfin,  albacore  (Germo  macropterus),  50  Ibs.  Bonito  (Sarda 
thiliensis),  20  Ibs.  Sheepshead  (Pimelometopon  pulcher),  20  Ibs.  Barracuda 
(Sphyraena  argentea),  15  Ibs.  Sea  trout  (Cynoscion  parvipinnis),  6  to  10 
Ibs.  Striped  bass  (Roceus  linneatus),  '  30  Ibs.  Montery  Spanish  mackerel 
(Sfomberomorus  concolor),  10  Ibs.  Fez  de  gallo  (Nematistius  pectoralis), 
60  Ibs.  Common  sword-fish  (Xiphias  gladius),  200  Ibs.  Short-sword  sword-fish 
(Tetrapturus),  150  Ibs.  Halibut  (Paralichthys  californicus),  30  Ibs.  Mackerel 
(Scomber  japonicus),  6  Ibs.  Black  rockfish  (SebastoJes  mystinus),  6  Ibs.  Orange 

1  The  striped  bass  has  just  begun  to  appear  in  Southern  California  waters,  and 
was  introduced  at  San  Francisco. 


392  Life  in  the  Open 

rockfish  (S.  pinniger),  10  Ibs.  Yellow  rockfish  (S.  miniatus),  8  Ibs.  Red  rock- 
fish  (S.  ruttrrimus),  10  Ibs.,  2%  feet  long.  Yellow-tailed  rockfish  (S.  flavidus). 
Blue-mouth  cod  (Ophidian  elongatus),  40  Ibs.  Blue  perch  (Medialuna  californi- 
fttsis),  5  Ibs.  Rock  bass  (Paralabrax  clathratus),  12  Ibs.  Spotted  Cabrilla 
(Jonnyverde),  5  Ibs.  Opah,  50  Ibs.  (rare).  Oceanic  bonito,  (Gymnosarda  pelagmis) 
20  Ibs. 

The  Lacey  Act,  Passed  by  Congress  May  25,  1900 

Prohibits  interstate  traffic  in  birds  and  game  killed  in  violation  of  State  law, 
regulates  the  importation  of  foreign  birds  and  animals,  and  prohibits  absolutely 
the  introduction  of  certain  injurious  species  ;  also  makes  it  unlawful  to  ship  from 
one  State  to  another  game  killed  or  captured  in  violation  of  local  laws,  and  which 
require  all  packages  containing  animals  or  birds  to  be  plainly  marked  so  the  name 
and  address  of  the  shipper  and  the  nature  of  the  contents  may  be  ascertained  by 
inspection  of  the  outside  of  such  packages. 

The  act  also  prohibits  interstate  commerce  in  game  killed  in  open  seasons,  if 
the  laws  of  the  State  in  which  such  game  is  killed  prohibit  such  export.  In  refer- 
ring to  these  provisions  of  the  act,  the  House  Committee  on  Interstate  Commerce 
reported  as  follows  : 

4 '  The  killing  or  carrying  of  game  within  the  limits  of  a  State  is  a  matter  wholly 
within  the  jurisdiction  of  the  State,  but  when  the  fruits  of  the  violation  of  State 
law  are  carried  beyond  the  State,  the  nation  alone  has  the  power  to  forbid  the 
transit  and  to  punish  those  engaged  in  the  traffic.  The  bill  will  give  the  game 
wardens  the  very  power  that  they  now  lack  and  which  will  be  the  most  effective 
for  the  purpose  of  breaking  up  this  commerce.  ...  In  some  of  the  States  the 
sale  of  certain  game  is  forbidden  at  all  seasons  without  regard  to  the  place  where 
the  same  was  killed.  The  purpose  of  these  laws  is  to  prevent  the  sale  of  game 
shipped  into  the  State  from  being  used  as  a  cloak  for  the  sale  of  game  killed  within 
the  State  in  violation  of  the  local  laws." 

What  Is  Always  Unlawful 

To  buy,  sell,  barter  or  trade,  at  any  time,  any  quail,  pheasant,  grouse,  sage  hen, 

rail,  ibis,  doves,  plover,  snipe,  or  any  deer  meat  or  deer  skin. 

To  have  in  possession  doe  or  fawn  skins. 

To  take  or  kill,  at  any  time,  does,  fawns,  elk,  antelope  or  mountain  sheep. 

To  take  or  kill  pheasants,  or  bob-white  quail,  or  tree  squirrels. 

To  run  deer  with  dogs  during  closed  season. 

To  shoot  half  hour  before  sunrise,  or  half  hour  after  sunset. 

To  trap  game  of  any  kind  without  first  having  procured  written  authority  from 

the  Board  of  Fish  Commissioners. 
To  take  or  destroy  nests  or  eggs  of  any  birds. 

To  ship  game  or  fish  in  concealed  packages,   or   without   your  name  and  address. 
To  buy  or  sell  trout  less  than  one  pound  in  weight. 
To  take,  at  any  time,  sturgeon,  or  female  crabs. 
To  take  abalones  less  than  1 5  inches  in  circumference. 


Appendices  293 

To  take  trout  or  black  bass,  except  with  hook  and  line. 

To  take  salmon,  shad  or  striped  bass  with  a  net  less  than  7^-inch  mesh. 

To  fish  with  boat  and  net  without  a  license. 

To  fish  for  salmon  with  nets  Saturday  and  Sunday. 

To  use  a  set-net. 

To  take  fish,  in  any  manner,  within  50  feet  of  a  fishway. 

To  take,  buy  or  sell  striped  bass  less  than  three  pounds  in  weight. 

To  shoot  meadow-larks  or  other  song  birds. 

To  shoot  on  enclosed  land  without  permission. 

Southern  California  U.  S.  Forest  Reserve  Rules 

No  firearms  are  allowed  in  the  Santa  Barbara,  San  Gabriel,  San  Bernardino, 
San  Jacinto  or  Trabuco  Canyon  Reserves  except  under  a  permit  issued  by  the 
Forest  Supervisor  in  charge. 

Shotguns  are  entirely  excluded  from  the  San  Gabriel  and  San  Bernardino  Re- 
serves. No  permits  are  issued  to  minors  in  these  two  reserves. 

Permits  are  issued  at  any  time,  and  are  good  to  the  end  of  the  calendar  year  in 
which  they  were  issued. 

The  following  conditions  are  printed  on  permits  : 

(i.)     Carry  the  permit  whenever  in  the  reserve  with  guns. 

(2.)     Submit  cheerfully  to  inspection  of  permit  and  gun. 

(3.)     Will  not  mutilate  live  timber  or  any  other  property. 

(4.)     Observe  the  game  laws. 

(5.)     Extinguish  fires  before  leaving  the  camp. 

Those  desiring  permits  in  Santa  Barbara  County  should  address  B.  F.  Craw- 
shaw,  Forest  Supervisor,  Santa  Barbara.  In  Ventura  County,  William  M.  Slosson, 
Forest  Supervisor,  Nordhoff,  Cal.  In  Los  Angeles  and  San  Bernardino  Counties, 
address  Everett  B.  Thomas,  Forest  Supervisor,  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  In  Riverside 
County,  W.  C.  Bartlett,  Forest  Supervisor,  San  Jacinto,  Cal. 

The  attention  of  the  public  is  called  to  the  danger  of  leaving  camp-fires  burn- 
ing. Fires  are  not  allowed  to  be  built  unless  a  space  of  five  feet  is  cleared 
around  the  fire.  No  fires  are  allowed  closer  than  twenty  feet  to  a  hillside.  The 
penalty  for  leaving  fires  burning  is  $1000  fine  or  one  year's  imprisonment. 

Fire-crackers  and  fire-works  are  not  permitted  in  the  reserves.  Forest  rang- 
ers act  as  game- wardens. 

For  further  information  call  at  the  office  of  Forest  Supervisor,  Everett  B. 
Thomas,  Room  103  Potomac  Building,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


List  of  Clubs  in  Southern  California  Organised 
for  Hunting  and  Fishing  and  Golf. 

BOLSA  CHICA  GUN  CLUB.— Count  Jaro  von  Schmidt,  President,  No.  i 
Chester  Place,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

CERRITOS  GUN  CLUB. — Rob.  E.  Ross,  Secretary,  California  Club,  Los  An- 
geles,  Cal. 


394  Life  in  the  Open 

DEL  REY  CLUB. — W.  H.  Stimson,  Secretary,  Stimson  Block,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

LA  PATERA  GUN  CLUB. — Louis  C.  Larson,  Secretary,  Goleta,  Cal. 

TUNA  CLUB. — Avalon,  Cal. 

SANTIAGO  HUNTING  CLUB. — N.  N.  Brown,  Secretary,  Santa  Ana,  Cal. 

RECREATION  GUN  CLUB. — J.  Frankenfield,  Secretary,  1007  South  Hill  Street, 
Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

LACUNA  GUN  CLUB. — J.  A.  Graves,  Secretary,  Baker  Block,  Los  Angeles, 
California. 

LOMITA  GUN  CLUB. — Dr.  O.  P.  Roller,  Secretary,  221^  South  Spring 
Street,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

SANTA  PAULA  GUN  CLUB. — A.  W.  Elliott,  Secretary,  Santa  Paula,  Cal. 

UPLAND  GUN  CLUB. — A.  G.  Allen,  Secretary,  Upland,  Cal. 

SHERIFFS'  CLUB. — F.  H.  Brakesuhler,  Secretary,  Court  House,  Los  An- 
les,  Cal. 

BLUE  WING  DUCK  CLUB. — C.  Van  Valkenburg,  Secretary,  California  Bank 
Building.  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

SANTA  MONICA  GUN  CLUB. — C.  C.  LeBas,  Secretary,  Santa  Monica,  Cal. 

FAIR  VIEW  GUN  CLUB. — R.  H.  Sanborn,  Secretary,  Tustin,  Cal. 

SISQUOC  RANGERS. — W.  H.  Granger,  Secretary,  San  Buenaventura,  Cal. 

CHRISTOPHER  LAND  AND  WATER  Co. — C.  C.  Merrill,  Secretary,  H.  W. 
Heltman  Building,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

GUADALUPE  DUCK  CLUB. — E.  C.  Tallant,  Secretary,  Santa  Barbara,  Cal. 

CHICO  LAND  AND  WATER  Co. — Ed.  R.  Maier,  Secretary,  440  Aliso  Street, 
Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

ALOHA  GUN  CLUB. — A.  W.  Marsh,  Secretary,  Temple  Block,  Los  Angeles, 
Cal. 

WHITTIER  GUN  CLUB. — Carroll  Proud,  Secretary,  Whittier,  Cal. 

ALAMITOS  GUN  CLUB. — G.  E.  Franklin,  Secretary,  Trust  Building,  Los  An- 
geles, Cal. 

SAN  BERNARDINO  GUN  CLUB. — F.  C.  Moore,  Secretary,  San  Bernardino,  Cal. 

CENTINELLA  GUN  CLUB. — J.  W.  A.  Off,  Secretary  and  Treasurer,  Second 
and  Spring  Sts.,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

REDLANDS  GUN  CLUB. — W.  C.  WHITTEMORE,  Secretary,  Redlands,  Cal. 

RIVERSIDE  AND  ARLINGTON  GUN  CLUB. — Owen  Council,  Secretary  and 
Treasurer. 

GREENWING  GUN  CLUB. — A.  M.  Goodhue,  Secretary,  Long  Beach,  Cal. 

GLENDORA  RIFLE  CLUB. — F.  C.  Neet,  Secretary,  Glendora,  Cal. 

ONTARIO  GUN  CLUB. — E.  V.  Caldwell,  Secretary,  Ontario,  Cal. 

PASTIME  GUN  CLUB. — N.  D.  Nichols,  Secretary,  San  Diego,  Cal. 

CREEL  CLUB. — Fred  A.  Walton,  Secretary,  Lankershim  Block,  Los  Angeles, 
Cal. 

POMONA  GUN  CLUB. — J.  A.  Gallup,  Secretary,  Pomona,  Cal. 

PINE  CLIFF  CLUB. — Hancock  Banning,  Secretary,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

CADWELL  GUN  CLUB. — L.  A.  Bailey,  Secretary,  Long  Beach,  Cal. 

VALLEY  HUNT  CLUB. — Dr.  F.  F.  Rowland,  President,  Pasadena,  CaL 

THE  MARYLAND  HUNT — Pasadena,  Cal. 

THE  PASADENA  GUN  CLUB. 


Appendices 


395 


PASADENA  COUNTRY  CLUB  (Golf). 

SAN  RAFAEL  GOLF  CLUB— San  Rafael  Ranch,  Pasadena,  Cal. 

SAN  GABRIEL  GOLF  CLUB. 

Los  ANGELES  COUNTRY  CLUB  (Golf). 

AVALON  GOLF  CLUB— Santa  Catalina  Is.,  Cal. 

SANTA  BARBARA  COUNTRY  CLUB  (Golf,  Polo). 

RIVERSIDE  COUNTRY  CLUB  (Golf,  Polo). 

CORONADO  (GOLF)  CLUB. 

ORANGE  GOLF  CLUB. 


Acknowledgments 

The  photographs  used  in  this  volume  were  taken  by  Harold  A.  Parker  of 
Colorado  St.,  Pasadena,  Cal.,  Messrs.  Putnam  and  Valentine,  Los  Angeles,  Cal., 
C.  C.  Pierce  &  Co.,  Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  Charles  Ironmonger  &  Co.,  Avalon,  Cal. 
J.  G.  Brewster,  San  Buenaventura,  Cal.,  The  Graham  Photo  Co.,  Los.  Angeles, 
Cal.,  and  C.  J.  Crandall  &  Co.,  Pasadena,  Cal.,  and  others. 


Ind 


ex 


Abalone  fisheries,  345 
Adenostoma,  43 
Alamitos,  51 

Albacore  fishing,  301-302 
Aliso,  204 
Alpine  Tavern,  142 
Amber-fish,  351 
Anacapa  Island,  192,  329 
Angel- fish,  321 

Antelope,     174-177;     range,  174; 
description,   175;    Valley,   174 
Arroyo  Seco  River,  26,  83,  213 
Arch  Rock,  205 
Argus  Peak,  148 
Au  torn  obi  ling,  181-207 
Avalon,  230,  262,  330,  331 
Avocet,  59,  122 
Azusa,  197 
Bait  Club,  86 
Balsa  Chica,  51 

Banning,  Captain  William,  280 
Barracuda,  313 
Barton  Flats,  144, 
Bass,  black,  97 
Bats,  125 
Beach  fishing,  346 
Beard,  S.  M.,  250 
Bear  Lake,  97;  Valley,  144 
Bently,  Dr.,  251 
Bighorn,  the,     129-134;   on    Ense- 

nada,  129;   range  of,  131 
Birds,  121-130 
Bittern,  least,  123 
Blackbirds,  54 
Black  Current  of  Japan,  375 
Black  Jack  Peak,  225 
Bonito  fishing,  301-304 


Brandegee,    Prof.    T.    F.,    337 

Brown,  Jason,  211;  Owen,  211 

Brown's  Peak,  148 

Burns,  William   C.,    27;    pack    of 
Kentucky  thoroughbreds,  27 

Cabrillo,  Juan  Rodriguez,  189 

Cabrillo  Mountains,  226 

Cacitas  Pass,  188 

Camulos,  192 

Canons  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  85 

Carlsbad    203 

Carnegie  Institute,  solar  observa- 
tory, 142 

Carpenteria,  189 

Channel  Islands,  234;  cruising 
among,  329;  flora,  337-338 

Chaparral,  density  of,  46 

Chino,  213 

Cienega  Seco,  144 

Climate,  for  Southern  California, 
339;  San  Clemente,  339;  Santa 
Cruz,  339,  361;  Santa  Catalina, 
339;  Santa  Rosa,  339;  in  San 
Gabriel  Valley,  365;  rainy  sea- 
son, 369;  variety  of,  363;  from 
Pasadena  to  Alpine  Tavern, 
363,  364;  conditions  which  affect, 
365 

Climatology,  of  California,  report 

of,  379 

Coaching,  from  Santa  Barbara  to 
the  Mission  of  San  Diego  deAcala, 
181,  207;  at  Santa  Catalina, 

2?S»  284 
Cold  Water  Creek,  94 
Colton,  197 
Condor,  123 


397 


398 


Index 


Cooper  Ranch,  187 

Coots,  58 

Corinthian  Yacht  Club,  340 

Coronado  Islands,  204,  329 

Corral  Harbour,  332 

"Cottontails,"  27 

Coyote,  hunting,  103-118;  range, 
118 

Cranes,  53;   sand-hill,  59 

Creel  Club,  86 

Cucamonga,  197 

Dark  Canon,  144 

Deep  Creek,  98 

Deer  hunting,  39,  47;  in  the  San 
Rafael  Hills,  42;  in  Santa  Bar- 
bara, 46;  in  San  Diego,  46;  San 
Jacinto,  46;  guides  necessary,  47 

Del  Mar,  202 

Devil  Canon,  144 

Devil's  Gate,  94 

Doves,  mourning,  124 

Dowitcher,  long-billed,  123 

Duarte,  197 

Ducks,  54;  varieties,  57 

Dumetz,  Padre  Franscisco,  192 

Eagle  Nest  Inn,  282 

Eaton  Canon,  92 

Eddy,  Col.  R.  A.,  251 

Elizabeth  Lake,  174 

El  Montecito,  188 

Elms,  H.,  338 

Elsinore,  76 

El  Toro,  4,  204 

Encenitas,  202 

Ensenada,  130 

Falkland  Islands,  238 

Fallbrook,  201 

Farallones,  237 

Fierasfer,  324 

Fiesta  of  San  Luis  Rey,  199 

Fillmore,  94 

Fellow's  Camp,  93 

Fox  hunting,  65,  75;  seasons,  74- 
75;  tree-climbing,  69;  coast,  70; 
hounds,  California,  73 


Fredalba,  145 

Gallinule,  59 

Garvanza,  26 

Gaviota  Pass,  188 

Geese,  wild,  52,  53;  varieties,  57; 
Canada,  60;  Hutchin's,  61 

Glass-bottom  boat,  240,  317-326 

Gleason's  Peak,  148 

"Glen  Annie"  Ranch,  187 

Goat,  wild,  225-234 

Godwit,  marbled,  123 

Gonzales  Ranch,  198 

Gophers,  124 

Greyhounds,  13,  14 

Grizzly  Peak,  148,  149 

Groupers,  313 

Gulls,  122 

Hale,  Dr.  George  E.,  92,  142 

Hammer-heads,  313 

Heron,  blue,  123 

Heteromeles,  43 

Hollister  Ranch,  187 

Howland's,  284 

Hueneme,  192 

Humming-birds,  124 

Ibis,  wood,  123 

Indio,  176-177 

Jack-rabbit,  hunt,  4,  15;  in  San 
Fernando  Valley,  12;  in  Pomona, 
12;  in  Ontario,  1 2 ;  Riverside,  1 2 ; 
Redlands,i2;  San  Diego,  12; 
Coronado,  1 2 ;  hunting  vs.  Cours- 
ing, 14-15 

Jess,  George  B.,  251 

Kelp  (Macrocystes),  237-257;  fish 
239,  240,  323-324 

Killdeer,  59 

Kinglets,  125 

Kinney,  Abbot,  99 

Kuroshiwo,  243 

Laguna,    205 

Laguna  Canon,  76 

La  Jolla,  204 

Lake  Elsinore,  198 

Landmarks  Club,  192 


Index 


399 


"Language  of  the  hunt,"  35 

Las  Cacitas,  137. 

Leaping-shark  fishing,  346-347 

Lipton  Cup  races,  340 

Lipton,  Sir  Thomas,  340 

Little  Bear  Valley,  144 

Little  Harbour  Inn,  282 

Lizards,  124 

Long  Point,  290 

Los  Angeles,  19;  river,  19,  83,  94, 

Los  Robles,  4 

Lynx,  hunting,  19-36;  description 
of,  29-30;  species  of  29-30 

McAdie,   Prof.   Alexander  G.,   376 

Maneadro  Valley,  130 

Maryland  Hunt  Club,  118 

Matilija  Canon,  94 

Merriam's  anletope,  range  map,  174 

Middle  Ranch  Canon,  230,  232,  281 

Millard  Canon,  213 

Missions,  206-207 

Mojave  desert,  167  177;  mirage 
in,  1 68;  vegetation,  171 

Monrovia,   197 

Moorehouse,  Col.  C.,  271 

Moray s,  322 

Mother  Mountains,  220 

Mountain-lion,  137-151;  range,  139 

Mountain-sheep,  129-134 

Mount  Conejo,  148;  Cucamonga, 
148,  151;  Cuyamacha,  202;  Pal- 
mar, 198;  San  Antonio,  194;  San 
Bernardino,  148;  San  Jacinto, 
194;  Santa  Margarita,  202; 
Santiago  85;  Tanquiz,  143 

Mount  Lowe,  elevated  road,  142 

Mount  Wilson  trail,  92;  observa- 
tory, 92 

Murietta,   198 

Murphy,  L.  G.,  251 

Negro  Canon,  213 

Neve,  Governor  Felipede,  191 

Newport,  121 

Nordhoff,  94 

Nordhoff,  Mr.,  133 


Ocean  sapphires,  324 

Ontario,  197 

Orange,    125;    County    Park,    28; 

hunts,  28-29 
Orcas,  291 
Orioles,  125 
Orizaba  Peak,  225 
Oromo,  Tony,  241 
Page,  Dr.  Benjamin,  28,  29,  97 
Painted  Cave,  the,  291,  292 
Pala,  77;  Mission,  200 
Palm  Springs,  170 
Palomar,  77 
Palos  Verde,  51 
Parker,  C.  E.,  73 
Pasadena,    87,    194-195;    Country 

Club,  27 

Pauba  Ranch,  198 
Pebble  Beach,  230 
Perris,  198 
Piers,  343 ;  from  Santa  Monica  to 

San  Diego,  343;  at  Long  Beach, 

343;   at  Venice,  344;  at  Ocean 

Park,  344 

Pigeons,  band-tailed,  124 
Pine  Creek,  94 
Pleasants,  J.   E.,  M.   H.   Santiago 

Hunt  Club,  28,  73 
Plover,  59,  123 
Point  Diablo,  291 
Point  Firmin,  121,  345 
Pomona,  197 
Poppy,  Matilija,  76 
Port  Hartford,  310 
Portuguese  Bend,  345 
Presidio  of  Santa  Barbara,  191 
Pronghorn,  the,  167,  177 
Priente  Hills,  321 
Puma,  139,  151 
Quail,    27;    valley,    123,    155,  163; 

description,    156;   grounds,    157; 

range   of,    160;   mountain,    161; 

desert  or  Gambol's,  162 
Raccoon,  26-27,  125 
Radebaugh,  Dr.  John  M.,  374 


400 


Index 


Rain-storms  in  the  mountains,  317, 

318 

Rain,  cause  of,  377 
Rainfall  in  Los  Angeles,  379 
Rat,  wood-,  125 
Ravens,  125 
Raymond  Hill,  193 
Raymond,  Walter,  193 
Rider,  F.  V.,  250 
Riverside,  197 
Robin,  125 
Rose-tree    foxhounds,    experiences 

with,  31,  32 
Rowland,  Dr.  F.  P.,  30 
Salmo  iridius,  89 
Salton  sink,  the,  150,  176 
San    Buenaventura    Mission,    188, 

191, 192 

Sandpiper,  59;  spotted,  153 
Sandpit  Canon,  144 
San  Clemente,  237,  283,  289,  329, 

33i 

San  Diego  Mission,  203 
San  Diego  Yacht  Club,  340 
San  Fernando,  192;  Mission,  192 
San  Gabriel  Archangel,  195-197 
San  Gabriel  Canon,  fishing  in,  86; 

Mission,  4;  River,  83;  Peak,  148 
San  Gorgonio  Chasm,  150 
San  Jacinto  River,  198 
San  Juan  Capistrano    Mission,  76, 

204 

San  Luis  Obispo,  27 
San  Luis  Rey  de  Francia,  201 
San  Luis   Rey   Mission,    76,    201— 

202 

San  Man  o  hounds,  10 
San  Miguel,  329;  Islands,  333 
San  Nicolas,  283,  295,  329,  331-332 
San  Pedro,  262 
San  Rafael  Hills,  26 
Santa  Ana,  205 
Santa  Ana  River,  83 
Santa  Anita  Ranch,  194 
Santa  Barbara  Mission,    184-186; 


Islands,  329;  Rock  329;  Harbour. 

335 
Santa  Catalina,   225;  coaching    in, 

277 ;  Islands,  329 
Santa  Clara  River,  95 
Santa  Cruz,  291,  329,  333 
Santa  Margarita  Rancho,  76 
Santa  Maria,  Vincente  de,   192 
Santa  Monica,  121 
Santa  Paula,  192;  Creek,  94 
Santa    Rosa,    289,    329,   333,    334; 

Island,  295;  Ranch,  198 
Santa  Ynez  range,  84 
Santiago  Hunt  Club,  28,  73,  118 
Sea-bass,  243,257;  angler's   equip- 
ment, 254;  -lions,  289,  297;  trout, 

312 

Seal  Rocks,  231 
Seriola,  351 

Serra,  Father  Junipero,  191 
Serranos,  the,  29 
Sheep,  bighorn,  129-134 
Sheep's-head,  325 
Ship  Rock,  285 
Shooting  clubs,  56 
Short,  Dr.  J.  de  Barth,  112,  197 
Shrubs,  146,  147 

Sierra  Santa  Monica,  the,  84,   192 
Sierra  Madre,  the,  83-100;  life  in, 

211-221 
Sisar  River,  94 
Sulphur  Mountain,  94 
"Skip-jack"  fishing,  305 
Snipe,  Wilson's,  123 
Soledad  Canon,  95 
South  Fork,  144 
South  Coast  Yacht  Club,  331 
Sparrows,  125 
Sphinx,  the,  249 
Spider  crabs,  321 
"Sprig,"  55 
Squirrels,  ground,  124 
Still  angling,  343-347 ;  at  Alamitos, 

327;  at  Port  Los  Angeles,  347; 

at  Redondo,  347 


Index 


401 


Stilt,  black-necked,  122 

Summer  camps,  145 

Sunny  Slope,  hounds,  12;  Ranch, 
194 

Surf -fish,  314 

Swallows,  125 

Switzer,  Commodore,  212 

Tattler    123 

Tejunga  River,  95 

Temecula,  198 

Temperature  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, 339;  comparison  with 
Riviera  resorts,  339 

Tern,  royal,  127;  Foster's,  122 

Thrush,  125 

Tia  Juana,  204 

Tiburon,  309 

Trees,  145,  146;  tree-climbing  dogs, 

23 

Trolling,  deep  sea,  301-306 
Trout  fishing,  in  the  Sierra  Madre, 
82-100;  in  the  Arroyo  Seco,  87- 
91;  in  the  San  Gabriel  River,  92; 
in  Santa  Ynez  Mountains,  93; 
in  the  Sespe  93,  season  in 
California,  95;  gameness  of 
California,  89;  weight,  95;  stock- 
ing, 96-97 


Tuna  Club,  243,  262;  tournament, 

251;  fishing,  261-272;  tackle,  263, 

264;  record  catch,    271 
Turnstone,  black,  123 
Tustin,  206 
Valley  Hunt  hounds,    10,  13,  104; 

meet,  103 

Viele,  Gen.  Charles,  249 
Vulture,  California,  123 
Warblers,  125 

Warner  Ranch  Indians,  198 
Weakfish,  309-3 12;  at  Santa  Cata- 

lina  310;  at  San  Clemente, 

3!0 

White  Rock,  290 

Willet,  western,  123 

Winds,  374,  375 

Wilson's  snipe,  58 

Wolf  Ranch,  198 

Wotkyns,  Grosvenor,  133 

Wrens,  125 

Yachting,  33S.336 

Yellow- fin,  301 

Yellow-tail,  351;  run  of,  352;  fish- 
ing at  Avalon  Bay,  353;  descrip- 
tion of,  356;  gameness,  357: 
range  of,  351 

Zalvidea,  Padre  Jos6  Maria,  197 


THE  WORKS  OF  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


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THE  WORKS  OF  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


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ADDRESSES  AND  PRESIDENTIAL  MESSAGES. 
1902-1904. 

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